Graves: By Steel and Star
by vOceanic
Summary: Following the death of his beloved wife, Malcolm Graves returns to his wandering ways, directionless and alone. After he learns of the League of Legends, he decides to give life one last chance. Soraka, a dedicated healer, senses that a surprisingly tender heart lies beneath Graves' rough, sandblasted exterior. He only needs the right person to bring it out.
1. Melena

Doctor Stevanalis sat back in his office chair, letting the hazy glow of the setting sun wash over his desk. He contentedly flipped through the pages of Piltover Weekly until his eyes rested on the latest article by Ezreal, Piltover's Grandmaster Explorer.

_My, my, is that boy quick. When I was ten years old, all I thought about was finding salamanders and pulling on girls' hair. And here's a ten year old writing an in-depth article on geological phenomena. The world is a wonderful place sometimes..._

So thinking, Doc closed his eyes. The smell of black coffee mingled with the warmth of the sun, and Doc found himself drifting off, back to the good old days. When finding the best salamander out of all his friends was his biggest worry.

The door to his tiny two-room office slammed open. Doc grunted and almost fell over. "Angel? What's wrong?"

There was no other question to ask. Something was obviously wrong. Angel's hair had fallen from its binding into great, loose tangles. Her eyes were wild, her face pale. Doc scrabbled for his glasses and perched them on his nose.

There was blood staining the edge of her white midwife's apron.

"Spit it out, woman!" Doc leapt to his feet, ignoring his knees' groaning protest.

Angel shook her head, dazed. "It's Melena Graves."

"What about her? No time to rest," Doc barked when he saw the midwife searching for a chair.

"She's not going to make it," Angel murmured. Doc sucked in breath, salamanders fleeing his mind. Wordlessly, he started for the door, Angel trailing him.

When they were down the road a little ways, he peered at her over the rims of his spectacles, still not slowing his pace despite the pain in his joints. Angel was clearly afraid to go back. "Did he hurt her? Did Malcolm hurt her?"

Angel shook her head. "No. Whatever else you believe, he's a good man."

Doc sidestepped three cheerful cowhands. He could barely hear Angel over their merrymaking. "Any man who's been to prison for being a conman isn't good in my book, Angel."

"But he was so sweet on her. He - " Angel's voice broke. Doc squeezed her shoulder. She was shaking, trembling beneath his hand like a spooked horse.

It had to be bad.

"Angel," Doc began. He strove to make his voice gentle. No easy feat: Melena was the daughter of his best friend. "What happened to her?"

"Blood."

"Have you never seen it before?"

"Not like this." Angel closed her eyes. "Never like this."

A few minutes later they arrived at the Graves' house, just on the outskirts of town.

There was no sound, save for the creak of the house's wooden bones. Doc felt a little shiver crawl up his spine, slithering like the salamanders of his childhood.

He saw Angel looking up at him with her little waif face. Though she had to be nearing twenty, the dirty smudges on her cheekbones made her look eight years old.

So Doc summoned up all of his willpower and thudded his fist against the door three times.

Once for Malcolm Graves.

Once for Melena Graves.

And once for their unborn, as of yet, child.

"Oh, thank the heavens." When the head midwife of Piltover saw Doc, visible relief filled her face. "Anne! Doc's here!"

"How many women are there? Is this a house party?" Doc stared in wonder as two more young females appeared, their faces carefully neutral. Rose's midwifery students were the best. It was a pity Angel's family hadn't had the resources to train her under Rose. "Clear some of these people out, Rose."

"Aye aye, capp'n. I brought 'em here because I thought it'd be a good case for them to watch but..." Rose sighed. Unlike Angel, her strawberry blonde hair was still immaculate, still bound in tight double-braids across her forehead. Her hands flapping like birds, she shoo'ed the other two women and Angel out of the house, leaving she and Doc alone.

"Careful, Doc. Don't want you to lose your lunch."

"Rose, do you always have to sound so chipper?"

Rose shrugged, her blue eyes glinting manically. Beneath her forced calm and cheer, Doc saw naked terror.

"How bad is it?" He asked in a lower tone. "None of you biddies can give me a straight answer."

"Well, see for yourself." Rose opened the door gingerly and stepped away. The coppery scent of blood smacked Doc on the nose and he fought a brief fight against vomiting.

_This is what you've trained for_, he reminded himself. So thinking, he went in.

He knew immediately that Melena wasn't going to make it. Blood stained the bed, soaking into the mattress. Blankets and towels surrounded her. Her breath was shallow and raspy.

The blanket Doc's wife made and gave to Melena for a housewarming present was unrecognizable, the pattern sodden.

Surely this - this couldn't be the little girl he'd hefted on his shoulders and carried around. Eaten barbeque with her beneath the hot July sun. Not this red and white...monster.

Her husband of five years, Malcolm Graves, held vigil over her bed.

"Took you long enough." Graves' eyes were rimmed with red. He, too, held the pallor of death.

"I came when Angel brought me. Let me, ah, let me -" Doc swallowed hard. "Let me examine the patient."

Graves stepped aside. Whatever Angel thought, nothing would ever make Doc trust Malcolm Graves. His every feature - his dark hair, reminiscent of Noxians, or his eyes, always aglow with wolfish light - cried out to Doc that he couldn't be trusted.

Never mind that Graves had lived in this same house for seven years. Never mind that he'd actually plied an honest trade for once in his slimy life, serving as a wood-hauler beneath Melena's father.

It was his rotten seed that was killing Melena even now.

Doc shoved the negative emotions to the bottom of his stomach and stepped closer to the dying girl's side. "Can you hear me? Melena?"

Her eyelids fluttered open - no recognition. The once pearly whites of her eyes were stained with burst capillaries. Her icy blue irises held traces of red. Doc shivered.

He leaned down, put his ear to her chest. She was going.

"Can you do anything? Doc? Steve?" Graves put his fist to his mouth. His sandburned, hard face wrinkled.

Doc was almost moved, to see a man who'd spent much of his life in the brig, brought nearly to tears.

Almost.

He pulled Graves out of the room by the shoulders. "She was giving birth, wasn't she?"

Graves nodded and gulped for air. "I don't know what happened. Something inside her. They -" he gestured outside of her bedroom, where the midwives were doubtlessly waiting. "They showed up with cookies and she was smiling. She was smiling, Doc! And then her face -" Graves went still. "Something burst. She bled. Can't you - can't you save her?"

Doc's shoulders fell. "Malcolm, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Graves moved too quickly for Doc to see. He lifted Doc by the shoulders and slammed him into the wall. "Can't you see she's dying, you thrice-damned egghead? All your science and you can't do a single thing? Can you hear me? CAN YOU FUCKING HEAR ME?" Doc saw stars burst behind his eyes as he connected with the wall again, sending one of Melena's watercolor paintings crashing to the floor.

Rose appeared out of nowhere and grabbed the Outlaw's arm, wrenching his grip away with surprising strength. "Malcolm," she hissed. "Go. Go see her out of this world. It's your last duty as a husband."

Doc crumpled against the wall, breathing hard. Feeling every one of his fifty-eight years, he said the first thing that came to mind. "I knew there was a reason I didn't like you, Graves."

Graves sneered, and behind the expression, Doc saw that his words wouldn't matter. Graves had heard far worse insults and let them roll off without a second thought.

"I always knew you were totally useless, Doc." Rose's jaw dropped.

He stalked away, to see Melena out.

Graves cradled Melena in his arms. When she'd started bleeding, his mind had raced. Now all he felt was calm, as frosty as the blue of Melena's eyes. One of his secrets was knowing when to give up, when to stop panicking and let life take its course.

The midwifes had carried the ill-begotten fruit of Melena's womb out of the house and were burying it. Their soft, superstitious incantations floated through the open window. So did the distant chirping of sandcrickets and the smell of rain, and a small breeze.

The world was going on, oblivious to the feverish form in Graves' arms.

"Well, baby girl, I thought my luck was changing. Guess not," Malcolm found himself saying. "I guess Fate was right. When bad luck comes, it comes to stay."

Melena's breath rasped through her throat. Graves held her closer, stroking her dark hair. It was wet with perspiration.

He could feel the fever rolling off of her, hot and damp like the air that hung over swamps. He bowed his head, and twin tears dropped onto her hair. "Won't be long now, I reckon."

It wasn't.

When Doc looked in fifteen minutes later, Graves was standing by the side of the bed, head still bowed in the same position. His only tell of grief was the tightness of his jaw.

Doc cautiously placed his hand on Graves shoulder. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Graves shrugged his hand away and went into the gathering night. He let the coolness wash over him. His single, sharp cry of grief rang from housetop to housetop, lonely as a coyote's howl.


	2. Goodbye

_One Year Later_

Graves sauntered into his favorite Piltover bar around the time the sun went down. The old wood building - little more than a shed, really - was already packed from wall to wall. On Friday nights, every miner, carpenter and cowhand made their way to _The Shady Lady_ to grab a card game or take a drink.

A cluster of men were churning up the sawdust in one corner of the bar, chatting up the serving maids and prostitutes. The more intellectual side of Piltover was seated towards the east, quietly conversing in some of the bar's voluptuous leather booths.

There were card games, too. Graves had no interest in hustling. After Twisted Fate's betrayal, the mere sight of playing cards made him feel slightly ill. His sharp eyes caught one cowboy slipping aces from his sleeve.

Malcolm snorted. He would've called him out, had he been playing against him. But the trickster's opponents probably had brains the size of nickels, and didn't catch the his basic trick.

The bar patrons gave Malcolm plenty of room, eyeing him suspiciously, whispering behind their hands. Many called him crazy, he knew. They thought the way he still talked to his dead wife meant he was addled - 'a touch o' the brain fever,' they said. Big talk from guys who weren't even through their first girlfriends yet.

Real big talk.

Jamie was at the bar, listening to the tinny radio on the counter.

An import from Ionia, Jamie had fuzzy red hair and large, bulbous gray eyes. Despite his strange appearance, everyone agreed he made the best brew this side of Piltover.

He gave Graves a lopsided smile as Graves settled into one of the tall stools across from him. "You want the usual?"

"Actually." Graves fished in his pockets and pulled out a black velvet purse. With a practiced hand, he poured some of the golden coins onto the counter. They winked lazily in the dim light of the bar.

Jamie's huge eyes grew even bigger. "What'll it be, Mr. Graves?"

"I want to buy a round for everyone. Hell, two, if that'll cover it."

Jamie looked from the coins to Graves and back again. The Outlaw's face didn't move.

Seeing the looks from the other patrons at the bar, Jamie leaned into the Outlaw's ear. "Malcolm, are you absolutely insane?"

"Well, figure I'll be cashin' out soon. Leaving. So why not? Tonight, Piltover's on me." Graves tried to smile, but only succeeded in displaying a rictus of pain. His dark eyes had an eerie light to them.

"Where are you going?"

"My girl's gotten pretty lonely. Thought I'd join her."

Jamie's eyes widened again. For a bartender in Piltover, he had a pitiful poker face. "You can't do that."

"Why not?" Graves shrugged indifferently. "Ain't like I got a religion."

"You don't need to do this. People have lost their wives before and since, Malcolm, and they haven't killed themselves."

Malcolm's jaw tightened. He started to slide the golden coins back into his purse. "Guess I'll be takin' my business elsewhere, then."

"Wait." Jamie grabbed the Outlaw's sleeve. "I got a reason for you to live."

Malcolm grunted. "Doubt it."

"There's this thing, out between Demacia and Noxus. Called the Institute of War."

"Do I look like a soldier to you, Jamie?"

"Wait a second. They're not all about war. Thought I might have some information you'd like to know." Jamie's eyes narrowed. "Twisted Fate's out there."

Graves felt his blood freeze, as if huge chunks of ice were worming their way through his veins. "Excuse me?"

"Fate. The guy who two-timed you."

"How do you know about that?" To his mild embarrassment, Graves felt his cheeks flush. His rage at Fate hadn't been dampened by the years. Just the mention of his name could bring his heartbeat to a slow, thudding crawl, and the sweat sizzling to his skin. _God, it's like he's got ahold of me still. I feel like a schoolgirl having her first crush. _

"Everyone knows about it. He brags about it."

"That scrawny little two-bit card throwing pansy," Graves hissed. Malcolm's eyes lit with rage, driving the ghoulish light in his eyes entirely away. For once in a long time, he actually looked alive.

Jamie noted the anger on Graves' face with satisfaction. It was nice to see emotion there, after the blank haunted look the Outlaw had sported for almost a year.

"He must've got you good. I thought you were smarter."

"You ever been fucked by your brother, Jamie?"

"I'm an only child."

"It was like that."

"Ah." Jamie got a large mug and began filling it with his darkest brew. Given that Graves had shown up every night at the Shady Lady since Melena's funeral, and stayed until it closed, he was familiar with the Outlaw's favorite drink. He put it in front of Graves. "Drink up. You'll need it."

Graves took a sip gratefully. That he was a hardcore alcoholic was widespread knowledge. Jamie watched his Adam's apple bob up and down as he drained a quarter of the glass. "You were saying?"

"The Institute of War. Right. You know how there's a fight going on between Noxus and Demacia?"

"Old news," Graves said. He took another sip and felt warmth bloom in his belly. Jamie's brew was the only thing that thawed him out, that drove back some of the cold clinging to his limbs.

"Right now, they're trying to work out a peace. Like a negotiation. And to do that, they need people to fight on behalf of other people."

"So it's a mercenary type deal." _If it gives me a clear shot at Fate, I don't give a single damn what the job is like_, Graves thought. In his mind, he saw a clear, vivid image of blood pouring down Fate's temples, matting his long hair. His prettyboy face smashed in. His collarbone broken in two places.

Those glowing eyes looking up at him, pleading for mercy.

Graves shivered with pleasure and took another drink.

"Better than that. The whole outfit is run by magic. Some weird, I dunno, voodoo shit." Jamie shrugged. "The point is, instead of blowing off Fate's head once, you could do it again. And again. And never get punished for it."

Graves stopped drinking and fixed Jamie with a stare. Jamie knew the Outlaw was trying to hide his feelings, but at this moment, his facade was just as weak as Jamie's own. Emotion roiled across his face, plain as a thunderstorm. At last he said, "You mean that?"

"Better than that." Jamie looked into Graves' eyes. "You could get paid for it."

"Jamie, you better not be making this up."

"Oh, no, my boy. What he says is quite accurate." Jamie turned to the patron on Graves' left.

Doc.

Doc looked older by the day. His blonde hair had wiry gray streaks running through it. He was staring into his own glass of Jamie's dark concoction. "Of course, you need to prove that you're worthy. There are plenty of warriors of all kinds going to the Institute. If you get there soon, you might have a better chance." Doc gulped his drink." Besides, a wandering man like you? I think your time in Piltover's almost done."

Graves sneered. "Of course you'd think that."

"Everyone does." Doc put his drink down a little harder than he intended to. The glass clattered against the bar. The patrons around them looked up, then quickly away. "Seeing you here, seeing you sit by her grave every day - it's just not good for you. Not good for the town."

"Pipe down, Doc. I'll leave tomorrow. You can keep this damn town to yourself." Graves looked into the depths of his drink at his own face. In the wavering liquid, he thought he could make out Melena's smile. Then Fate's glowing eyes.

"For Fate? Are you going for Fate?" Jamie asked suddenly, his curiosity besting him.

Graves closed his eyes, and nodded. "I reckon. That, and your picture of this place sounds an awful lot like outlaw heaven."

Graves got to his feet. With the alcohol percolating in his veins, the world appeared a whole lot more agreeable. The light rosier, the people more cheerful and less stupid.

He shook roughly half the coins from the purse onto the bar in front of Jamie.

"I don't deserve all this."

"Is that something they teach you in Ionia?" Graves barked a laugh. "Here in Piltover, we take gold where we can find it. Besides, it's for being the best damn barkeep in this dump. And for the info."

Jamie looked sorrowful. "I'll miss you, Malcolm." It was true. Besides being his best customer, Graves had a dark sense of humor that sat well with Jamie.

Graves touched two fingers to his forehead. "You've been good to me. Later, Doc."

Doc closed his eyes. "Bye, Malcolm."

And just like that, Graves was gone.

* * *

Melena's grave was marked by a rugged wood cross. Despite his many skills, woodworking was never one of Graves' fortes.

Their child lie next to her, headed by a smaller monument. Two sticks.

The smile brought on by alcohol faded from Graves' face. Seeing those crosses were the fastest way to sober up.

Graves knelt on Melena's burial site, cloak thrown over his shoulder. He cleared his throat.

He was always careful to use proper English around Melena - the one thing she'd insisted on. She never nagged him about doing housework or drinking too much. Only the language he used had to be correct.

Graves always thought it was a fair trade, even if those high and mighty words sounded strange rolling off his Bilgewater tongue.

"I have to leave, my love."

_Where are you going_? he heard her say. Or maybe it was the wind.

"The boys here told me I could have a second chance. A chance to beat Fate, too."

Melena was silent.

"I know you'll miss me. I'll miss you, too. But I have to go. I've been here too long already."

The wind fluttered Graves' cloak. _Goodbye, my love_, he thought it was saying.

He stood up, jaw clenched. After making sure no one was around, he kissed his right hand and put it on Melena's cross. It lingered there for a long moment. "Goodbye."


	3. Dreams

Malcolm left his house at first light. He had nothing but a small knapsack and his gun on his back.

The air was cool and fresh, smelling of dew. The ashen sky was starting to show traces of rosy pink.

Despite the early hour, Piltover already bustled with tradesmen. Some of the street diners were frying bacon and cooking maplecakes. Wood cutters and herders leaned against the walls of buildings, chugging their strong coffee and watching the crowd.

Graves felt his stomach rumble and tried to ignore it.

Maybe he had been a bit too generous with Jamie the night before. Passage clear to the Institute of War wouldn't come cheap, and there was little gold to spare.

But Graves didn't worry about it. Wherever he went, there was a bit of extra coin to follow.

He let himself roam through the cluster of caravans near the center of Piltover. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, but he'd know when he found it. Operating on instinct was part of his trade.

_ Hell, maybe Doc was right. Maybe I do have a touch of Noxus in me. Always heard they were psychic. Hard to tell what pedigree you have when you're a Bilgewater bastard._

Graves wrapped his cloak around him, hiding his figure. Piltover didn't have a problem with him, but these caravans were from all over Runeterra. He picked out envoys from Shurimana, Urtistan and Kaladown.

There was even a group from Freljord, four or five beady-eyed soldiers riding fluffy white mustangs. The soldiers had shed most of their armor, as the chilly morning was already many times warmer than summer in their home state.

Graves chuckled. _They won't last more than an hour in this heat. The men or the horses. _

Finally he slowed to a halt in front of a group of Ionians. Their six wagons were clean, their horses well-brushed and clear-eyed. The wagons seemed to house a couple of families – mothers, sisters, brothers, and uncles stood around, chatting in their native dialect and laughing.

Graves felt his heart lurch when the father of one group handed out Piltover-fresh bacon to the kids. They were practically tap-dancing for joy.

Taking a gusty breath, the Outlaw cut through the crowd of relatives and tapped the father on the shoulder. "Who do I need to speak to? I'd like passage on this convoy."

"That'd be me." The Ionian man stood up straighter, but still barely reached Graves' shoulder. "Davin. Pleased to meet you."

Graves said nothing, but withdrew the purse from his knapsack and thrust it into Davin's hand. He saw the Ionian's eyes light up and sighed internally.

People were always impressed by gold. Gold wasn't hard to come by when you had no kinsmen, and all you wanted was strong, cheap alcohol.

"What do you want, stranger?"

"Passage to the Institute of War, food during the trip. I want to be left alone. No questions asked."

"I have to ask at least one question before I take that offer."

Graves shrugged. Davin must be smarter than he looked. Only fools didn't ask questions. "Let's hear it."

"You on the run?"

Graves thought about it. "Yeah, I am, but not from the law. You should be safe."

Davin nodded. "We're on our way to the other side of the Institute. We don't have much in the way of luxury, but feel free to make yourself at home anywhere you want."

Malcolm nodded, slung his gun over his shoulder and headed towards the wagon in the middle. Two Ionian children – brothers, had to be - watched him intently, jaws dropping when they saw how massive his gun was. He ignored the excited chatter he left in his wake.

The scent of exotic spices tickled the inside of his nose. _Spice convoy. They don't get hijacked too frequently, I guess._ _If we do get boarded...well, I could use a little target practice before I see Fate again._

Graves arranged the pillows into something resembling a bed_. _He had a feeling that this wagon was where the children slept at night. _Looks like the brothers will be staying with their parents. Sorry boys._

So thinking_, _he pulled the brim of his hat down over his eyes and covered his head with a spare pillow to muffle the noise. He fell asleep instantly.

* * *

And dreamed of Fate.

That's what happened when he didn't drink himself to sleep. He dreamt of either Melena or Fate.

He saw himself seated near one of the poker tables in _Rudy's Tavern_. A clock chimed the hour of two in the morning. Ordinarily, the club closed at midnight.

But Rudy himself was sitting beside a group of his customers, biting his nails nervously.

The largest jackpot the ramshackle bar had ever seen covered the table in front of Graves - gold pieces of all kinds, from doubloons to standard Demacian coin, along with the title to some hokester's horse and the diamond earrings off the serving maid.

Three people had already bowed out. No one could take the pressure. The jackpot was potentially life changing.

And Malcolm Graves was intent on winning it.

He peered over his hand again. If his unnamed adversary knew about poker tells (and Malcolm was sure he did), such a move would broadcast fear. A false signal, of course. He was holding four aces in his hand. As the turn dragged on, the cards began to turn oily with sweat.

Still the man across from him didn't move, his broad hat cloaking his face with shadow.

He and Graves sat, deadlocked, until Rudy slapped his hands on the table. The gold rattled merrily. "Alright! Alright! I've had enough!" he cried in his thin, reedy voice. "Show your hands, or I swear to God, I'm taking the whole thing for myself! On the count of three!"

Tension blew out of the room. The few remaining customers started chuckling and talking in whispers.

Graves ignored them, his eyes honing in on the man's hand as he flipped his own.

Four aces. The same hand as his.

Rudy tilted his head back and roared with laughter until tears fell down his face. He collapsed into the chair behind him, shaking his head. The two waitresses leaned on him, shaking with merriment.

Malcolm gritted his teeth. _How didn't I see him? What a bootlickin', disease-ridden –_

To his surprise, the man across from him got to his feet and removed his hat with a grand flourish, revealing a thin, foxy face. Then he leaned across the table, took Graves' hand in his, and shook it. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, partner. I'm Twisted Fate."

"You're who? What kind of name is that?" Graves leaned back in his chair. Beside him, Rudy was still laughing.

"Can't deny what your parents gave you at birth. Whether it be a silver spoon or a stupid name." Fate grinned. After a moment, Graves found himself grinning back. "Reckon we go half on this?"

"You can keep the horse. I have enough horseshit in my life."

Fate chuckled. "He can have it back." He snatched the slip of paper from the table so quickly that Graves didn't see it. The hokester gaped at Twisted Fate in confusion. "Check your ear." Frowning, the charlatan reached into his right ear and pulled a crumpled wad of paper out of it. The title.

Rudy, seeing this latest spectacle, shook with fresh spasms. Graves had to admit that the horse-gambler's shocked face was pretty funny.

"So that's why I didn't see you stack your hand, huh? You some kind of magician?"

"I know a few tricks." Fate tipped his hat. "A few broads, too."

Graves snorted. He started collecting his half of the pot, dumping it in to his knapsack. "Well, I would hang around, but even outlaws need their beauty sleep."

"Where you stayin'?"

"Wouldn't you like to know? Nice try, Fate. I ain't that stupid."

Fate shrugged. "Didn't say you were. I was just thinkin' the two of us could make more use of this whole pot than each of us with half."

Graves' eyes narrowed. "The hell you talkin' about?"

"If we nearly tricked each other, I think the two of us together can trick a whole lot more." Fate smiled broadly, revealing white teeth. The grin crinkled the edges of his frosty blue eyes. "If you wanted to, of course. I'm stayin' at the Briar Rose down the road a little way. Second floor, all the way to the right."

"You're tellin' the guy you just gypped where you're stayin'. " Graves shook his head. "Not smart."

"What? I'm not worried about you robbin' me."

Graves huffed. "I'd hush if I were you."

The laughter around them suddenly stopped. Graves felt the air around them crackle with tension and suddenly felt tired. Dog tired. The last thing he wanted to do was get in a fight with this blue-eyed street magician outside of Rudy's.

Rudy spoke up. "I dunno, Malcolm. Based on what I've seen tonight, you and Fate would make a good team."

"Is there a law in _The Outlaw's Handbook_ that says you have to work alone?" one of the waitresses added. "I bet it gets lonely, sometimes, hustling by yourself."

"Besides," Rudy added. "Fate's right. Two heads are better than one when it comes to making money. Right, girls?" He tickled the waitresses on either side of him. They chortled accordingly.

Malcolm sighed deeply and stopped rolling the money into his knapsack. Part of it was weariness, part of it was irritation. But most of it was grudging respect for Fate's sleights of hand.

And to deny that he and Fate would make a lot of money was foolish.

Besides, there was little else going on in his life. He was wandering, directionless. Maybe he was meant to team up with this blue-eyed trickster. "Fine. You get your way for now, Fate."

"For now," Fate echoed. "Follow me." He made his half of the jackpot vanish into a bag, tipped some coins into Rudy's outstretched hands, and made for the door. Graves found himself scrambling to keep pace with his long strides.

Thus he and Twisted Fate's partnership began the same way it ended - with a dark mixture of deception and honesty in almost equal parts.

Back at Briar Rose, Fate treated him to some sweet Ionian ale. Over the frothy glasses, Graves learned his story – a poor gypsy child, trying to make it big. He sensed no lies from Fate on this matter, so begrudgingly shared his own sad tale. Abandoned in Bilgewater, to make the best of it himself.

As the night, then the weeks, then the years wore on, Graves had to confess that he rather liked Twisted Fate. They had a lot in common. The same mindset. The same ideals.

And between the two of them, they were able to fleece every tourist from Piltover to the Plague Jungles and back.

That didn't mean things were perfect. There were still hard times, and the money didn't stop Fate's eccentricities from bothering Graves occasionally.

For one thing, Fate had an odd way of touching him that Graves chalked up to his gypsy upbringing, always leaning on his shoulder or ruffling his hair. It seemed like that handshake back in Rudy's had shaken something loose in him. Swatting Fate away was like swatting a mosquito. He just kept coming back.

It irritated Graves at first, but he learned to live with it. Fate's sheer brilliance at writing up and executing schemes was worth a touch of anger.

While Graves respected some rules of courtesy, Fate didn't care. He didn't care about being tough or even being safe. Graves would slide through city crowds like gunsmoke, while Fate hopped from child to child, making coins fall from their ears, or leaving sweetcakes in his wake. Making sure he was remembered.

One evening, low on cash, Graves walked in on Fate reading a book, holding it above his head. He lay down on his own bed with a grunt, rolling over restlessly. "Too damn hot in here," he muttered.

"I think you're just bored, honestly."

"And you aren't? I'd be out there stealing the coats of those cowhands' backs at poker, but got nothin' to gamble with."

"Not bored at all. This stuff's really wild. Listen to this: 'Full fathom five your father lies; those are the pearls that were his eyes.'"

Graves' nose wrinkled. "The hell does that mean? Bunch of nonsense, just like your name."

Fate tossed the book to Graves. "Read it. Find out for yourself."

Graves knocked the book to the floor and grumbled something.

"What was that, cowboy? You talking to the dust bunnies again?"

"I can't read, Fate," Malcolm growled, jaw clenched. His sunburnt cheeks were flushed red.

"Ah, sure you can. Just never had someone to teach you." Fate shrugged out of his shirt and opened their inn room's window, letting some of the stuffy air out, letting the scent and sound of Noxus on a Thursday night in. Graves bit his tongue, burying the urge to lecture on how unsafe it was.

Fate knew what he wanted to say. "It's just a damn window, Malcolm."

"I swear, one of these days, your open windows will be the death of you."

"That a promise?" Fate smirked. "Now come here. I'll teach you to cipher."

"Bah. I don't need to know how to read."

"How old are you?" Fate asked incredulously. "Forty? Fifty?"

"I'm twenty-two, smartass. Same as you."

"Two decades and you can't read." Fate looked up to the ceiling as if asking for divine benevolence. "Lord, help me."

"You don't need to read in Bilgewater."

"Malcolm, listen." Fate's blue eyes burned into his. "I know I joke around a lot, but this is important. You gotta know how to read."

"But why?"

Fate, looking solemn, tapped the side of his head. "Brain power. C'mon, Malcolm. I know you can do it. You're plenty smart."

Malcolm guffawed. "Don't get all soft on me."

Fate grabbed his wrist, held it, squeezed it. "I'm not."

Graves' face hardened. He snatched his hand away. He wanted to say something, but his thoughts were a mess. Maybe _he_ was getting soft. In the head.

"Dammit, Fate. Teach me how to read. Get it over with."

Fate's mysterious eyes gleamed. He went to his traveling trunk and pulled out a picture book. _The Demacian Pony_.

Seeing Graves' face flush an even deeper crimson, Fate said, "Don't worry. Just for alphabet practice."

"That's nice. Soon I'll be able to read about ponies by myself." Graves laugh was as rich and bitter as the coffee he liked to drink.

"Not everyone has time to read," Fate said primly. "Nothing to be ashamed of."

"That's not what you were saying earlier."

"Hush, Malcolm." He took a seat beside him, leaning (of course) on his shoulder. Graves fought the urge to push him away as Fate licked his index finger and paged rapidly through the book. "Do you know your alphabet?"

"I do."

Fate looked at him. "But you can't read?"

"I've never really tried."

Shaking his head, Fate brought his finger to rest on the first sentence on the page. "Read that for me."

Graves squinted, a bead of sweat trickling from his temple to his jaw. He mouthed the sounds he vaguely remembered, struggled through it. Fate praised his efforts. His blue eyes danced with happiness.

Halfway through the book, Graves noticed Fate studying his face and rumbled, "Glad you're havin' a field day."

Fate snapped the book shut and tossed it back into his trunk. "You did well. That's enough for one night."

Graves shook his head. "What would people think, seein' you teach me like that? Like a schoolmarm?"

Fate snuffed the lamp without another word. Graves lie awake a long time, seeing letters dance on the ceiling.

The only time Graves debated blowing Fate's head off during their partnership followed a huge Demacian heist.

They were sitting around a crackling campfire with other men similarly above and below the law. The moon was full and Graves was half-drunk, taking long pulls of moonshine from the flask on his hip.

Some of his temporary cohorts had scored some foxweed. Graves had always wanted to try it, but never had the chance. By the time the guests passed the paper to him and Fate, it was already almost gone. Fate took it first.

"Make sure you save some for me," Graves grunted. After all, he'd done most of the dirty work. It wasn't like Fate could scare grown men away with his party tricks. No, you needed a gun to do that.

Fate held up a finger. "Hold tight." He lit the paper and pulled all the smoke deep into his lungs.

"What the hell, Fate?"

Fate kept holding up the same finger, taking the longest drag Graves had ever seen. Then Fate put his hands on Graves' cheeks and pulled him close, putting his lips over his. Graves yelped.

Before he could move, the sweet smoke came funneling down his throat. Time slowed to a liquid drip, and his skin exploded with sensation. He closed his eyes.

When Fate pulled away, Graves tugged his gun from his shoulder and pointed it at Fate's head in one smooth motion.

The magician winced and froze, holding his hands up. Even in his foxweed-addled brain, he knew what Graves was doing.

The camp fell silent – that same old, old thunderstorm silence Malcolm was intimately familiar with from hundreds of fights. Graves blustered. The alcohol and foxweed churned his thoughts to liquid. He found himself snarling, "Don't you do that again, you slimy sack of –"

Fate's face was as calm as dusk on a lake. "Calm down, cowboy," was all he said before turning away. After a moment, Graves slung his gun over his back again. His extremities were numb.

The raucous partying continued around them. No one was dumb enough to comment on what they'd saw.

He and Fate sat wordlessly. Graves looked over, saw the flames flickering over Fate's face. Over the thin line of his jaw. "So what," he said at last, breaking the silence. "You sweet on me? You been sweet on me? You some kinda – homo?"

Fate said nothing.

Graves shifted. "Damn, that shit just hit. Strong, too." The edges of his vision were growing blurry, pearly white. Graves blinked, blinked again. He thought he saw another Twisted Fate sitting beside Fate. Except this one's eyes were actually glowing.

Graves rubbed his eyes until the vision went away. "I ain't a homo," he grumbled.

Fate touched his fingers to the brim of his hat – something that meant he was about to lie entirely or tell the truth. A real trickster knew to blend his tells together. "Old gypsy custom."

"Yeah, sure, Fate." Graves chuckled. "You blame all your shit on gypsies. Keep talkin'."

"You think we can afford a lot of foxweed back home?" Fate smiled lazily and stretched his long limbs by the fire. "Nah, we'd get two families together. One of us would take a pull, blow it in the other's mouth."

"That's fucking gross."

"Nah, man. The husband of one would shotgun the wife of the other. The son of one to the son of the other. Hell, sisters and brothers. Twice the high for half the cost."

Graves grunted. In the year that followed, it never came up again. And after a couple weeks, Fate started touching him again, leaning on him, annoying him to no end.

Still, those were the days.


	4. South

_N. B. Hello, readers! To those of you who followed me here from _Ezreal: Home at Last_, thanks for your continued support for my writing. To those of you just joining me, I hope you enjoy this story. As always, critiques through review or PM are most welcome and will be taken into consideration._

_I'll admit that this story deviates a bit from my previous work. It's a bit more private in nature and more low-key. For that reason, the content or style might not be quite as palatable to all readers._

_If you'd like to find out about my forthcoming stories (including a sequel to the Ezreal one), there's some information on my profile._

_Thanks again, and happy reading!_

Someone was shaking him. Graves had a moment of frosty panic when he snapped to wakefulness. He scrabbled for his gun. _Not this time, you two-timing bastard! _

The old woman recoiled from him, milky-white eyes widening. Her face was creased and folded as a well-worn map.

Graves bit back the snarl that rose to his lips. _I told you to leave me alone. _

"What can I do for you, ma'am?"

She pointed to him, then pantomimed walking with her fingers. "You. Rice. Dinner."

"Oh. Thanks." He got up cautiously, feeling his joints crackle. His elbow in particular throbbed the way it always did when the weather was about to go south.

He followed the matriarch out of the wagon, trying not to think about how old he was getting, how fast. _Oh hush, Malcolm_, he thought he heard Melena say. _Thirty-six is just getting started_.

_That's what I'm afraid of._

They must've traveled quite a bit between sun-up and sun-down while Graves was asleep. In the auburn dying light, he could barely make out the snow-capped peaks of the Ironspike Mountains. Around him was a near-endless stretch of plains, waving grass whispering in the night breeze as far as eye could see.

Looking up at the night sky and being able to make out galaxies caught at Graves' heart. All outlaws knew not to look at the sky for too long. The distances and darkness led to nothing but sad songs and headaches.

But the family he was traveling with made up for the vast silence with good cheer. As he made his way towards the central bonfire, a group of toddlers scrambled past him, playing tag. He nearly bumped into two women chatting and laying out picnic blankets.

He squatted beside the two brothers who had watched him so closely earlier in the day. The younger one had a shock of inky hair and the liquid green eyes peculiar to the high hills of Ionia. The older one had Jamie's coloration –pale hair with a smattering of freckles, curly red hair, and a wintry gray gaze.

One whiff of the exotically flavored food set Graves' stomach churning. Almost twenty-four hours since his last drink. Maybe thirty-six since his last actual meal. _Damn, I should ride with the spice traders more often. At least they know how to cook._

The younger brother poked Graves in the ribs and waved him closer. Graves leaned his ear towards him. "We actually woke you up because you were groaning in your sleep," he whispered.

"Joshua!" The older brother flushed bright red and smacked his sibling on the head. "Don't talk to him!"

"Ah, don't worry about it, little 'un. I don't bite." Graves looked into the fire. "If you want to talk, go ahead."

"Mother mixed one of our special herbs into the rice. It's supposed to make the dreams go away. Isn't it, Arin?" The younger brother Joshua grinned up at Graves, revealing gapped teeth. Arin shook his head, embarrassed.

Graves grimaced. "I hope it works."

"What do you usually dream about, sir? I dream of dragons and fireflies."

"Father said no questions," Arin growled, gray eyes blazing. "That's enough."

Graves ignored him. "I dream of old friends. Old times."

"Pfft, getting rid of that is easy. You just have to fill your head with new stuff," Joshua said, with the calm assurance of eight-year-olds. Graves hid his smile with his hand.

"I wish the world was that simple." One of the uncles in the convoy handed Graves a small bowl of puffed rice and a cask of water. Fighting hunger, Graves took one of the kernels and let it dissolve on his tongue.

If his tongue started burning or if it went numb, that generally meant it was poisoned. The spices they used would probably mask any taste, but it was still worth a try.

"_Looks like it wasn't windows that did you in after all, Malcolm. Forget to check your food?" Fate chuckled. _

Graves shivered.

Arin shifted awkwardly beside him. "Sorry about my brother Joshua, sir."

"No need to apologize. Your brother's right, after all."

"Yes, but Father told us not to ask you questions."

Graves looked sideways at Arin, fought an internal struggle, and lost. "Kid, your curiosity looks like it's about to burn you up. Go ahead. Ask what you want. I don't promise to answer, though."

Arin leaned forward, glancing furtively around to make sure his father was out of earshot.

"Why are you going to the Institute of Justice?"

"Looking for employment." The rice finished dissolving. Nothing untoward-tasting here. Graves started shoveling it into his mouth, grateful for the warmth.

"As a Champion or a Summoner?"

"Not sure what that means," Malcolm mumbled through the rice.

"Champions fight and Summoners…well." Arin frowned. "It's complicated."

"From that, I reckon I'll be a Champion." Arin's eyes widened perceptibly. His little brother gasped. "Anything else?"

"You ever shoot anyone, mister?" Joshua tugged on Graves' gunslinger cloak.

"Plenty of people."

"You gonna shoot us?" Arin swatted his brother again, shaking his head.

"Nah, don't reckon so."

"Why not?"

Graves took a swallow of the water after sniffing it. It didn't burn with added chemicals. He swallowed. "That wouldn't be very nice, would it?"

Before Arin and Joshua could ask more, Davin swung by and pulled them away with an apologetic smile. "Sorry about that, sir. No accounting for kids, is there?"

"Ah, it's no problem. Let 'em stay."

"You sure?" Davin cocked his head. "I don't want them to annoy you."

"They make good company. Been too long since I had an honest conversation."

Davin guffawed, rocking back on his heels. "If they're bothering you, let me know."

"My turn to ask questions," Graves said after finishing the rice. "You ever been to the Institute before?"

"Not inside the Institute." Arin wrapped his lanky, twelve-year-old arms around his knees. "We set up a seasonal shop outside the walls. Mother thinks we might stay permanently this time. I hope so."

"Is it nice there?"

"Uh, yeah." Joshua smiled up at him, rested his head on the Outlaw's knee. Graves' back stiffened, but he let it go. "There's ponies and parades and music –"

"And fireworks every weekend in the summer." Arin's eyes grew dreamy. "And magicians, too."

"Magicians, huh." Graves frowned. "What kind?"

"There's actual magic in the Institute. Serious stuff. But on the outside, we get a lot of street performers."

"Ah." Graves chugged the last of his water and wiped his lips with his sleeve. "Who's your favorite Champion?" The word settled oddly on his tongue. _Sounds like a fairy story. That's why. _

"The Card Master!" Joshua exclaimed. Graves winced. _Well, I wonder who that could be._

"Arin?"

"I like Janna. She's so pretty and nice. She signed one of my posters last year when we went." Arin smiled fondly, recalling the memory. "But if you get in, you'll be my favorite champion."

"Mm." Graves sighed. The herbs in the rice seemed to beckon him towards sleep once more. Another trick of anyone outside the law. Sleep when and where you can.

Not that he'd slept much after his wife's death. Maybe he was making up for it. Nodding goodbye to the brothers, he curled up inside the wagon once more.

The journey southward took another week and a half. It didn't take long for Malcolm to warm up to the family, or for the family to warm up to him, even if they never learned his name. He was there to push the wagons when they bogged down in the Howling Marsh, straining his muscles alongside Davin and his brothers. He took shifts in driving the horses and feeding them.

The spice traders' meals – the first regular ones he'd had in a year – revitalized him so much he took to walking beside the convoy when the weather was nice.

And when Joshua pleaded for bedtime stories, Malcolm retold the ones he remembered hearing around campfires years ago, making the endings happier and the tales less dirty. Soon the children sat around him at night, playing under his cloak and tugging at his face.

The evening before they reached the Institute, he even broke out his harmonica, playing a few licks to thunderous applause. Their constant companionship made the cathedral vastness of the wild around him bearable, made him notice the emptiness less.

After pulling into the city outside the Institute and parking their wagons, Malcolm swung down from his usual spot and shook Davin's hand. "I'll be seein' ya."

"Wait a sec." Davin disappeared into the head wagon and emerged with a small, gold-silk bag full of the rarest spice they had in stock. Kalamere.  
Graves' eyebrows shot up. "What's this?" He went to press it back into Davin's hands. Davin backed away.

"No, no. Take it. Sell it when you run low on cash. You deserve it. We'd've never made it out of the Marsh if you hadn't been with us."

Graves bowed his head. "Thanks." _The best people you meet in life are always temporary._

He threw his knapsack on his back and dove into the cluster of shops surrounding the Institute, seeking its heart.


	5. Gates

Graves didn't think the settlement outside the Institute had a proper name. Kinda funny. He'd run across little towns – Angel's Crossing, Spark and Captain's Peak, to name a few – that had less people but official titles.

The settlement made market day in Piltover look like a sleepy Sunday afternoon. The quiet of the plains left Graves ill-prepared for the cacophony that greeted him and left his ears ringing with static.

Thousands of words in all dialects and accents were thrown into the air at once. Added to the musicians' horns, bells and drums, and Graves couldn't hear a damn thing.

Amid the traders, musicians and street cooks, Malcolm's sharp eyes picked out people dressed in robes of all colors. Blaze red, indigo. Robes as green as stalks of new wheat under a morning's dew.

At first, he was in a mind to follow them. He chose a particularly busy looking fellow wearing a robe the color of sunshine and tailed him.

His prey stopped at three different fruit vendors before Graves gave up. A woman in black brushed past him. He bit his lip, counted slowly to five, and fell into step behind her.

But it was also useless. She darted from shop to shop like a heron. Swearing steadily under his breath, Graves followed a gray robe, then a green one, then an orange one.

By the time Graves realized none of them were going to the Institute, the sun had risen high into the sky. Wrapped in his dark traveller's clothes, Graves felt himself starting to bake. Sweat poured down his face. His vision wavered as the beads of moisture collected near his eyes. _You'd think there'd be a map somewhere_, he thought hazily. _Damn poor planning if you ask me_. _Shoulda hired me to plan this damn city instead._

He leaned against a building wall, drawing the attention of a group of boys kicking a sack of beans around. He ignored them, restlessly scanning the crowd.

He honed in on a purple robed specter leading a water-blue robe gracefully through the crowd. He willed his ears to hear their conversation above the ruckus.

"…the League welcomes you with open arms, Artemio."

"I would hope so," Malcolm thought he heard. "I'll be one of the first Summoners from Bilgewater. The League is in need of diversity."

"Yes, indeed. Both in Summoners and Champions."

Graves' aching feet stumbled after the two robes. Frustrated by the heat, he plucked his flask from his side and dribbled some of the alcohol on his lips. Despite knowing it would just dehydrate him further, Graves relished the bitter taste.

"What does the Institute plan to do about the latter, Ray? The lack of Champions?"

The purple robe bowed his head. "We were in talks today about addressing the problem. There have been a few suggestions." They took a sudden right turn down a narrower alley. Graves kept them in sight, but lost their voices. A mock swordfight near him was drawing loud rounds of applause.

Graves looked behind him. No one was taking the slightest bit of interest. Still…his hair prickled along his temples and neck.

And no outlaw distrusted their senses. If they did, they didn't live long.

Flinging his cloak over his shoulder and grabbing the butt of his gun, Malcolm Graves followed the robes into the shadows of the alley.

Olivia Marks shifted uncomfortably in her new violet robes. She'd always been a restless child, and hearing the Venerable Summoner ramble for hours about the League wasn't helping the muscles twitching in her feet.

_If this is what it means to be a graduated Summoner, I should've stayed a Novice._ She sighed deeply. Her suitemate, Zandred Claren of Zaun, promptly elbowed her in the ribs. "Pay attention," he whispered from the corner of his mouth.

Fighting the urge to sigh again, Olivia tilted her head back. At least the Summoners' Hall was pretty to look at. She lost herself among the ocean-blue tiles on the ceiling. Every other one was detailed with a creamy white dove. If she crossed her eyes, it looked like they were flocking together, just like they did in the spring…

Zandred, catching the edge of her thoughts, elbowed her again. More gently this time. Maybe he was getting bored, too.

"…Today begins a new policy," the Venerable Summoner Iorick rumbled, and paused. There was a slight rustling of purple robes as the Summoners sat forward, their attention regained. "If a Summoner approaches a potential Champion, they must ensure that that Champion joins the League, on pain of being expelled from the halls of the League."

A murmur ran through the ranks of the Summoners. Discontent and confusion filled the air. Olivia cocked her head.

Even with her rudimentary empath abilities, the emotions of her fellow Summoners were as clear to her as the sunlight streaming through the arched, stained-glass windows.

"Something must be done about the lack of men and women, the lack of creatures swelling our League's ranks. Yet, at the same time, we must be careful to choose them carefully. The only thing worse than lacking champions is having poorly selected ones." Iorick steepled his fingers beneath his fluffy white mustache. "This policy ensures that everything is done to add to the League's numbers." He bowed his head. "You are dismissed."

Olivia shot to her feet. Her cramped calf muscles twanged, and she leaned against Zandred. "Doesn't this mean that Summoners will be less likely to approach potential Champions?"

Zandred shrugged. The sounds of the Summoners' voices were growing in volume as their colleagues discussed the Venerable Summoner's ruling. "I suppose. The way Iorick worded it is interesting."

"What do you mean?" She grabbed Zandred's elbow as they wended their way through the Summoners' Hall.

"Well, what if you approach a potential Champion on accident? What happens then?"

Olivia's heart thudded once, twice, slowing its beat. She blinked in surprise.

Zandred glanced sideways at her. "Feeling okay?"

"Yeah." She rubbed her eyes and nearly tripped over the Summoner in front of her. "I just…when you said that…"

"A little bit of precognition, hmm?" Zandred smiled. "Good luck with that."

When she and Zandred made it out of the Hall, Olivia pushed her hood away from her face, letting her bronze skin soak up the sun. Her black hair fell to her shoulders in lazy curls. "I don't know if it's something I'll ever get used to."

"What's that?"

"Knowing things like that. I know when someone's coming to visit, what they're serving in the Mess Hall –"

"Well, they do publish menus." Zandred winked and Olivia swatted him.

"You know what I mean."

"I do. And your predictions are generally accurate, too. Hopefully you get a champion that's easy to deal with." They started walking again, headed towards their Quarters.

Olivia was silent for a moment. Then, thinking aloud, she said, "Is it still accident, if I approach someone I don't know and they're the potential Champion?"

Zandred sighed. "I do wish you wouldn't ask these sorts of questions."

"What, you don't think they're interesting?" Olivia smirked. "For someone from Zaun, you can be pretty uptight sometimes."

"Not everyone loves brain teasers, my dear." Zandred put his arm around Olivia's shoulders and brushed his lips across her cheek.

The Gates were of massive, wrought iron, with spikes so tall they looked able to pierce the clouds. Malcolm shaded his eyes with his hand and let out a long, low whistle. He watched from afar as the two hulking guards in red opened the gates just far enough to let the blue and purple robe in.

Graves wondered if the guards were fully human. Most of their features were shadowed by rose-red robes, so the Outlaw couldn't see their faces, but given the sheer size of their shoulders, he guessed no. _Ogres of some sort? From the North? No idea. _

Through the Gates, Graves could see swarms of blue robes punctuated with clusters of purple. Brick buildings like churches were crouched behind the gate as well.

The back of his neck was still tingling. The sweat on his temples itched and burned. His ears were ringing, too, though whether that was hunger or not was up for debate.

_Fate is here_, he thought. _I don't know how I know, but I do. He's in there, somewhere_.

An unconscious snarl crossed Malcolm's face. He fished his lucky flask from his side and dribbled his lips with liquid courage. Still clutching the end of his gun, he strode up to the hulk on the right, cloak swirling behind him.

Malcolm didn't falter a bit, even when the guard towered chest and shoulders above him. The red-robe, whatever his ancestry, emitted a sour odor like that of stale milk.

"State your business," the hulk rumbled.

Graves wet his lips. He tilted his head back, seeking the ogre's eyes. "I've come to be a Champion."

The words rolled off his lips like an enchantment from an older tale. He waited for the ogre's stern reply, for him to ship him back to Piltover, to bury him beneath the sand with Melena.

_I have to get in. Fate's in there. Somewhere. _

The guard seemed to look him over. With a curt nod, he motioned to the other guard. The Gates began to slide open with a deep, profound moan that seemed to echo through the city. Graves fought the urge to put his fingers in his ears and settled for gritting his teeth.

_Fate, I'm ready for you. _


	6. The League & Olivia

The Gates shut behind Graves with an iron clang that rang of finality. He grappled with the queasiness in his stomach – people like him didn't take kindly to being behind any kind of bars. Probably instinct.

He surveyed the Institute. Flowers of all shapes and colors ran beside the stone walkways. Trees twice as tall as Graves arched into the air, covering the ground in shade. The air seemed fresher, cleaner. He found himself gulping it into his lungs.

And compared to the raucous settlement outside, the Institute was quiet as a cathedral, save for the low chatter of people wearing robes, and the playful burbling of water from many fountains.

_Better get walking, Malcolm_, he thought. _There's plenty of time to smell the roses later._

He meandered down the central path, looking for anything – a sign, a greeter, a pamphlet. The purple and blue robes parted around him. Some of them looked him over, while others averted their eyes.

After half an hour of walking around, Graves felt his temper starting to simmer. _The Institute of War, eh? More like Institute of Cowards. _

He cleared his throat and tugged the nearest blue robe's shoulder. "S'cuse me." The young man's green eyes widened. He shrugged off Graves' hand and scurried away. Malcolm huffed. "Well, that's just wonderful."

He had a mind to go back through the Gates, and would've done so if skin hadn't been prickling so intensely. _I know Fate's here. Maybe he warned 'em, told 'em not to talk to me. _That thought inflamed his temper even more. His temples throbbed and his heart pounded. Gritting his teeth, he whirled – and collided with a purple robe, who staggered back. Pain burst behind his eyes.

The robe's companion chuckled. "I guess that answers the question of whether it'd be an accident or not."

_Watch where you're going_! Graves almost snarled. _No, wait_. _They can help me, I think._ He fought with his temper. Melena's face, calm as water, drifted into his mind. He focused his attention on it, felt his heart rate slow.

He took a deep, shuddering breath. "Sorry about that."

The purple robe shook her head dizzily. "No, no. I'm sorry." She pulled her hood back from her face.

Graves blinked. Her ebony face was framed by silky, black tresses. Her delicate cheekbones gave her an exotic air, one Malcolm couldn't quite pin down. _I must be gettin' sick. Been a long time since I've been floored by a woman. _

Impulsively, he reached for her hand and kissed it. She flushed from the roots of her hair to her neck.

"Malcolm Graves," he said. "If I may say so, you're prettier than a night sky over Kaladown." _And you have amazing tits, m'lady_, _even through that robe_, he thought but didn't say.

Her eyebrows shot up. _Why, thank you_, Graves heard in his head. He flushed a bit, but said nothing.

"I'm Olivia Marks. You look lost. What brings you to the Institute?"

"I've come to be a – what do you call it." Graves chuckled, feeling completely out of his element and stupid. "Been out in the sun too long."

"Champion," Olivia's companion interjected with a small cough.

"There's the word. A Champion. One of those who fights."

Olivia blinked. "That's – that's great! Unfortunately, I just got promoted from Novice yesterday, so I have no idea how to get you into the League." She looked to her companion. "Zandred?"

_Oh, great. I finally get someone to help me, and it's a greenhorn. Just that infamous Malcolm Graves Luck at work, I guess._

"You have to get him in now." Zandred cocked his head. "You talked to him first."

"But I don't know how!" Her eyes wide, she grabbed Zandred's shoulder. "I can't get kicked out the first day of being a real Summoner!"

Zandred rolled his eyes and sighed deeply. "I guess I can help you. We'll go talk to Iorick first." He glanced sidelong at Graves. "You know how to handle that gun?"

Graves huffed. "Yessir."

Olivia stared him up and down until Zandred elbowed her in the ribs. "Talk to him about the League. It's not hard. Come on, Olivia," he growled. He looked to Graves. "Sorry about this."

Malcolm shrugged.

"Right," Olivia said slowly. She fell into step beside Graves and Zandred. "There's a lot of fighting to be done. If you become a Champion, you'll be fighting on behalf of Summoners. In return for fighting for them, you'll be fed, housed and clothed here."

"At the Institute, huh?" Graves looked around. "Better than other places I've been."

"There's a lot of other stuff, like your role and what you'll be able to do on the Rift –"

"The Rift is where Champions fight," Zandred added hopefully, seeing the look of confusion creep across Graves' face. "What brings you to the Institute, mister – do you prefer Malcolm or Graves?"

"Graves." Graves swallowed. He reached for his hip flask, stopping when he saw Olivia's disapproving glance.

"Um, Champions aren't allowed to consume alcohol." Olivia frowned.

"Oh." Graves closed his eyes, hearing twin voices start up in his head. _That alcohol is your biggest weakness, Malcolm, _Melena murmured_. You're such a strong man, except for that._

_Guess alcohol was the end of you, eh_? Fate laughed. _You're more dimwitted than I thought._

He fetched a deep sigh.

"How often do you consume alcohol, Mr. Graves?" Olivia asked, nervously twisting the ends of her dark hair.

"Just Graves is fine. And two times – when it's my birthday, and when it isn't." Zandred chuckled, but Olivia's amber eyes filled with worry. Graves felt bad, seeing that pretty face so distressed.

"How long have you been drinking?" Olivia bit her lip. "You might be addicted."

Graves snorted. "Since I was a baby."

"You drank alcohol as a _baby_?"

He shifted self-consciously. "Not everything in Bilgewater is as nice as wherever you came from."

"I'm from Noxus." Graves did a double check. Seeing his inspection, she asked defensively, "Is there a problem?"

"Nah. You just don't –"

"Look Noxian?" Olivia smirked, a feral light entering her eyes. "I don't look Demacian or Freljordian either, do I?"

Graves grunted. "You're too pretty."

"The good news," Zandred interjected, looking sternly at Olivia. "The good news is that, at the Institute of War, our nationalities don't matter. We employ anyone and let everyone summon on their birthplace's behalf, regardless of where that is."

He halted in front of a home with a distinctively Demacian exterior. Three stories tall, it had two small fountains and twin street lamps in front of it. Blue and gold flowers hugged the brick walls, and twin marble lions rested on either side of the door.

"This is where the Venerable Summoner Iorick stays," Olivia explained, staring up at the roof. She squeezed her hands together. Graves heard the knuckles pop.

"You always so twitchy?"

Olivia blinked. "I guess so. Never thought about it."

Zandred bowed deeply from the waist. "It's up to you now, Olivia. Don't let the League down." Graves thought he detected a note of laughter in his voice. He sneered after Zandred as he bustled away, joining a group of nearby purple robes – Summoners, Graves thought they were called.

"Wish he wouldn't treat this as a joke. You seem pretty torn up, if you don't mind me saying so."

"Oh, it's just Zandred being Zandred. He's my best friend and rival."

Graves felt his chest lurch. His breath caught. Olivia looked at him sharply.

"Are you alright, Graves?"

"I was just thinking that that's an odd combination, ain't it? Best friend and rival," Graves mumbled. Olivia's lip quirked. "What now?"

"I sense a lot of dark things on you. Hovering over you." She examined him from head to toe, eyes lingering on his face. Malcolm almost made a nasty comment about Noxus, but stopped himself.

"You're right, I think," he said softly.

"Oh well. I'm up for the challenge." So saying, she stood on her tiptoes and knocked on Iorick's door.

* * *

Graves picked his way through the mansion. Wealth always made him feel self-conscious, no matter how much he denied it. His boots sounded too loud, too clunky on the hardwood floor. He worried that his cloak would bring one of the many vases crashing down.

Olivia seemed equally timid, but her slim frame made it easier for her to maneuver.

The Venerable Summoner's office was just as crammed full of statuary as the rest of his house. Iorick himself was sprawled out comfortably in a large, leather chair, looking out his window and ruminating over a cup of tea. The wisps of heat rising from the brew tangled in his fluffy white beard.

He greeted Olivia with a friendly nod, but his eyes widened when he saw Graves. Malcolm hurriedly put his right hand over his left shoulder – the Demacian symbol of peace.

Iorick sat up straighter. "Ah, Olivia. What brings you here on this fine summer day? And who is your guest?"

Olivia bowed. "Greetings, Venerable Summoner. I, ah –" she swallowed hard. "I've located a potential Champion for the League."

"On your first day of Summoning? That's wonderful, Olivia." Iorick's kindly smile wrinkled his entire face. "I'll see to it that he begins his trials immediately."

"There's a small problem," she murmured.

"What's that, child? Speak up." Iorick grinned at Graves. "We older fellas don't hear as well as we used to."

We_ older fellas? You look ripe for the catacombs. _Graves hid his distaste behind a neutral smile.

"There's a small problem," Olivia said louder. There she went again, smoothing her robes, tugging at her hair, shifting from foot to foot.

"And what might that be?"

Graves cleared his throat, tired of being spoken for. "I'm an alcoholic."

Iorick frowned, leaning over his tea. "Ah, I see. Unfortunately, you aren't permitted to compete in the League until you're clean, so to speak."

Graves scrubbed at his chin. "Yes, the little lady told me."

"So what do I do?" Olivia's voice was a husky whisper.

Iorick settled back with a sigh. The silence went on so long that Graves started to wonder if they'd been forgotten. He sneaked a glance at Olivia. Her head was bowed, her lips trembling. "Well, Olivia, this is what separates the higher order Summoners from the lower order ones."

"What's that, Venerable Summoner?"

"Ingenuity." Iorick nodded to himself, looking satisfied. "Can you, as a Summoner, be creative enough to prepare this man for the League? How can you rid him of his addiction? Since he's not an official Champion, you're in charge of feeding and quartering him. His trials begin in two weeks." He locked eyes with Olivia. "His fate and yours falls on your creativity."

Graves saw the flash of worry fly across Olivia's face. She hid it quickly. "Thank you, Venerable Summoner." She bowed. After a moment of hesitation, Graves did the same.

* * *

Outside Iorick's house, Olivia let out a long sigh. Somewhere, a bell chimed the hour of two, followed by a Demacian lullaby. "Alright, Mr. Graves."

"It's just Graves."

"Sure. I need some honest answers to some honest questions." She looked at him shrewdly. "No lies."

Malcolm winced. He hated questions. "Whatever it takes, I reckon."

"Are you hungry?"

"Yeah."

"Follow me." He and Olivia strolled along the sunwarmed path. Graves fought the urge to empty his flask into his mouth. "Why'd you come here, Graves?"

"Employment."

"Why else?"

"What do you mean, 'why else'?" Graves' eyes narrowed. "When a man needs a job –"

"The Champions who come to the League generally have more than that for motivation."

Graves sneered. "If you can read my mind, why don't you tell me?"

Olivia pursed her lips. "I can tell you have another reason, but I can't make out what it is. Look - do you want to be here or not? If so, cooperate."

"Fine. Fine." He ran a hand through his dark hair. "My wife is dead and I have a score to settle with someone here."

"Ahhh." Olivia's face brightened. "Revenge, eh? Always a worthy cause."

"You know all about that in Noxus," he muttered.

"Same in Bilgewater." Olivia's face hardened. "Are you sure me being Noxian isn't a problem?"

Graves smiled tightly. "Sweetheart, you can be anything you want, as long as you aren't late for dinner."

Olivia rolled her eyes. "So who are you after here? Or do you want to argue about that, too?"

"Someone by the name of Fate. A cowboy. Trickster. Bastard."

"The Card Master? Oh." Olivia stopped walking.

"He's here, eh?" Graves laughed derisively. "Hard to imagine him being a Champion of any kind."

"He's actually a Summoner favorite."

"That scrawny, pale-faced jerk? What does he do? Go up and talk people out of killing him? All he was good for. Talkin'."

Olivia frowned. "How long has it been since you've seen him?"

Graves thought back. It was hard to do so, as the idea of Fate being popular irritated him to no end. "Well…let's see. We met when I was eighteen. We rode together until I was twenty-four. I spent four years locked up, two years working in Piltover, married to Melena for five, stayed another one..." He looked blankly at Olivia. "I reckon over a decade. Damn." Graves scratched his head. "No, it certainly doesn't seem that long."

Olivia looked at him sympathetically. He wondered what she saw. She couldn't hardly be more than nineteen if she was a day – hell, he probably looked older than dirt to her. "What are you lookin' at?"

"Aren't people allowed to look at you?" She took his arm and squeezed it gently. "I think Fate's changed a little since you've seen him last."

"What do you mean?"

"He's a mage."

Graves paused. "He was a magician when I knew him, yar."

"No. A mage." Olivia shook her head. "A sorcerer."

_ A sudden image of that night with the Foxweed. The two Fates, one with eyes glowing like a wolf's. Older, longer hair. A knowing smile. That other Fate vanishing. _

_They say Foxweed can grant visions of the future, sometimes…_

He felt like the air had been punched out of his stomach. "No, that can't be right. The most he could do when I knew him was turn a deck of cards into aces. And make balloon animals." Graves rubbed his goatee. "Lots of those. I think he could juggle, too. And play the guitar." He saw Olivia looking at him oddly and added, "What I'm getting at, princess, is that there's been a mistake."

"You said his name was Twisted Fate, right? How many Twisted Fates can there actually be?"

"How the hell does someone become a sorcerer after being a street magician? Does he wake up one day and start shitting magic sparkles?" Graves looked at her incredulously. "Pardon my language."

"It's understandable. You said he was your rival?"

"He two-timed me. He's the one who sent me to jail. Lost part of my life in there." Graves nearly added _You wouldn't understand_, but Olivia looked like she did.

"I never knew he was such a scoundrel."

"Lady, that's an understatement. You should've seen some of the stuff he did to women. Children too." Graves cleared his throat. "I wonder if you should boot him from the League."

"What? Oh, no. We don't do that." As if reciting a motivational speech, she said, "We consider the League of Legends to be a second chance for all involved."

_Damn, it was worth a shot._

"So. He is here."

"Yep. And if you get clean and into the League, you get to fight him on an almost daily basis."

"So what's the deal with that, anyways?"

"I'm glad you asked." Olivia launched into the detailed explanation of the way the League worked. Graves tried to focus, but found he couldn't keep a certain blue-eyed magician out of his mind.

One who was now a sorcerer, of almost unlimited power.

_Bah. We'll see. You shouldn't bring playing cards to a gunfight._


	7. Soraka

By the time he and Olivia made it to her particular Summoners' Quarters, the need to drink was getting to Graves. The craving sat just below his skin, squirming there like a bunch of millipedes, burning him. He unslung his flask and tipped it out in front of the double doors, releasing acrid odors into the air.

Olivia wrinkled her nose. "How did you drink that stuff? It smells like furniture polish."

"The hell you use to clean couches, woman?"

"Never mind. Do you understand the League now?"

Graves cocked his head, considering. Olivia had been talking over the course of their whole walk, but between his thirst, his heavy clothes, and thoughts of Fate, he hadn't heard much of it. "Mostly, I think. I never was a good listener."

"That's alright, then." She pushed open the doors, revealing a lobby that was just as lush as the Venerable Summoner's home.

A plush maroon carpet contrasted neatly with the ivory walls and ceiling. Paintings of natural scenes – rugged mountains, skylines, tropical forests – covered the walls as far as Graves could see. Their infinite, dark detail caught the eye and stirred the mind. Graves could smell coffee, too.

His lip curled distastefully. "Is everyone here rich?"

"Not us. The Institute. Wait here." She pressed her hand to his chest. He sank into one of the cozy red chairs with a grunt, feeling his joints crackle. He slid a hand across his sweat-damp forehead and saw Olivia's amber eyes light with sympathy.

_I probably look as old as dirt to her. She can't be a day over nineteen. _

"I ain't ready to lay down and die yet," he growled.

She recoiled. "I know, I know. Just…I'm going to work some things out and bring you lunch, alright?"

Graves nodded curtly. She vanished in a flutter of indigo robes, leaving him to consider the paintings around him.

By now his whole body was burning from a mixture of dehydration, hunger, craving and Fate. He closed his eyes to shut out the pain.

And the quickest way to do that was to think of Melena. _No, no. Not right now. I can't handle it._ The thought of her burned him more than flames did. More than Fate…

"Fate, where we goin'?"

"What, you don't trust me?" Fate turned back to him, gave Graves his best, brightest grin.

"No, I don't," Graves said honestly. He wiped his eyes and looked up at the moon. It was full, hanging there like an auburn Ionian lantern. Picking his way over the craggy hills in the middle of the night was stupid, whether or not Fate thought there was treasure up ahead.

"Think of it as a hustle, Malcolm. Pure cash without the people!"

Rocks skittered away from Graves' feet. He heard them clatter down the hillside, sound vanishing, and felt his heart lurch. "Besides, you scared?" Fate called.

Graves huffed. "No, I ain't scared. If a skinny ass can do it, I can too."

"Then come on!"

Focusing on keeping his feet moving, Graves kept Fate's lean form in view. Eventually they turned left and came to a plateau. Fate chose that moment to light the lantern he had hidden from Graves. It was as bright and orange as the moon above.

Graves' mouth dropped open. "You had a damn lantern this whole time?"

"Had to save it. The better to see the treasure."

"You're out of your mind."

"Then who's more crazy? Me, or you for followin' me?" Fate cocked an eyebrow, the light flickering over his face. Swearing under his breath, he followed Fate to the other side of the plateau.

And there it was, a gold and black chest. It barely came up to Graves' knees. "That's it?"

"What were you expecting?"

"Something bigger. I dunno. Flashier, I guess."

"Just 'cause something's not flashy doesn't mean it's not worth a lot." Fate sat the lantern on the ground and went to work picking the lock.

"Big words coming from a magician, Fate. Flashiness is your whole trade." Graves squatted beside him. He'd never admit it, but he loved to watch Fate pick locks.

It was almost like magic.

After his skinny fingers danced over the clasp for a few more moments, the box sprang open. Fate shined the light into it with a low whistle.

Noxian sapphires of all shapes and sizes winked back at him, their oceanic light covering he and Fate with sparkles.

Graves frowned. "Who leaves this out in the wild?"

"It's a trading spot. Their waiting on the next convoy to come pick it up." Fate shut the chest with a look of satisfaction on his face.

"And how'd you find out about this?"

"Ah, I made a friend." Fate chuckled.

"A friend who told you about this?"

"He didn't want to talk at first, but…" Fate flicked his switchblade engraved with the sign of clubs. "I found he was friendlier after I showed him my knife."

Graves laughed so hard he nearly fell over. "Damn, Fate!"

"Told you we could make more money together."

His laughter subsided into hiccups. Graves shook his head. "This was all you."

"What? No, we split it fifty-fifty."

"I didn't do shit for this – "

"But you've paid for every hotel for the last eight months. C'mon." Fate cocked his head, still smiling.

"Alright, alright." He shook Fate's hand over the chest – an old ritual they'd had since their first hustle. "But drinks are on me."

"They always are." Fate winked and hefted the chest on to Graves' shoulders. "So are these sapphires, for now."

Olivia stood beside Soraka, both of them watching Graves mutter in his sleep.

"What do you see?" Olivia asked. Her face was lit with a desperate hope that said, _Please tell me it's not as bad as I think it is. _

Soraka shook her head mournfully. In a low, gentle voice, she murmured, "He's surrounded by some of the darkest emotional energies I've ever encountered."

"That's what I was scared of." Olivia took a trembling breath and pressed her fingers to her eyes. "He's apparently out for revenge on The Card Master."

Soraka shifted her weight. "That's part of what I see. A large part. Do you know what Twisted Fate did to him?"

"Ah. 'Two-timed' him. That's what he said."

"Betrayal," Soraka sighed. "Malcolm isn't a man who takes well to betrayal, I imagine."

"But how bad could it be?" Olivia blinked rapidly. "He hasn't seen Fate for over a decade, and he's still burning for vengeance? Even in Noxus, we try to let things go after six or seven years."

"I have no idea. I see only that the wounds in him are not even remotely close to healing."

Olivia looked on at Graves in silence. Soraka knew that even with Olivia's Noxian heritage, she was a very caring individual, and the tough Outlaw was already making inroads to her heart. "His trials are in two weeks," she said at last. "Have you heard of the new policy?"

"I have." Soraka inclined her head. "I wouldn't worry just yet, my friend. I will do everything in your power to help you."

"But his drinking problem…"

"I think between the two of us we can find things that interest him other than drink." Soraka saw Olivia's face crumple in confusion. "No, not that."

"Oh. Sorry." Olivia shook her head, sending her dark curls flying. "I just – Noxian thinking, I guess."

Soraka put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "That sort of thinking is not necessarily a disservice to yourself."

Olivia looked at Soraka, then back at Graves. "Do you really think we can do this?"

"I do, my friend."

"Then let's get started."

Graves was startled awake by Olivia shaking his shoulder. He cracked open one eye. "Yes, miss?"

"I've come to introduce you to Soraka, mister Graves."

"Soraka? I eat Soraka on my food sometimes."

Olivia looked at him blankly. Soraka stepped in, smiling warmly. "I think you're thinking of siracha sauce, Malcolm."

"Ah, yes. That's what it's called." Graves surveyed the new visitor from head to foot, frowning slightly. He wasn't sure what to think of her – it'd been a long time since he'd seen anything but humans. Her silvery hair fell in long, luscious waves to the small of her back, accented by her liquid gold eyes. She wore nothing but a skirt and a cropped top, revealing her trim abs.

But what really got Graves was her skin. It was as purple as Olivia's robes.

"Well. How do you do, Soraka?" He leaned forward and shook her hand.

"Just fine, thanks."

"Soraka's a healer here at the Institute," Olivia cut in.

"A healer? Why do I need a healer?" His eyes blazed into Olivia's. "Dammit, I told you I'm not old yet – "

"Yar, I was one of the only champions available to take care of you." Soraka smiled mischievously, faking an outrageous Bilgewater accent. "Every otter 'un was too yellowbellied ter handle you."

Graves half-smiled at the parody. Maybe she wouldn't be too uptight for a healer. "Too scared of my gun, eh?"

"And your facial hair. Besides, I heard you had a drinking problem."

"Maybe a small one, yar."

"Where I come from, alcoholism is remedied with finding other things to drink. Have you ever heard of nectar?"

"Ah, that stuff don't exist."

"But you've heard of it, haven't you?"

"Indeed I have." Graves leaned back. "Not many outlaws who haven't. Nectar falls from the moon and tastes like the inside of a star, your childhood nights at grandma's and a spring forest."

"I heard it differently when I was growing up. The idea's the same though." Soraka leaned forward a put a hand to Graves' forehead. The Outlaw shied away.

"What're you doin'?"

"Healer things. I don't want to get fired for not doing my job." She closed her eyes. After a moment, Graves did too. Olivia bit her lip hard as she saw Soraka's hand begin to glow a pearly silver, sending streaks of moonlight into Malcolm's hair and beard. As Olivia watched, the strands darkened, curling at the edges like the ash of a log. Soraka winced and moved her hand away.

"How do you feel?"

"About the same. A little less tired." He peered at Soraka. "You going to be doing that the whole time I'm here? Touching my head?"

"That and some other stuff."

"What if I don't want to be touched?" Graves' voice held an odd, childish note. Olivia frowned in tandem with Soraka.

"Why wouldn't you want to be?"

"It hurts."

Olivia took a deep breath as Soraka assured him, "It won't after a while. I promise. Let me go with Olivia to make plans, alright? You should look at some of the paintings while I'm gone. It'll teach you to appreciate art."

Graves nodded and went to survey the nearest one – a hyperrealist rendition of a hidden rainforest temple. His joints, to Olivia's eyes, seemed to be less stiff already.

"You sure you have enough power to do this?" she muttered to Soraka.

"I wish you'd stop doubting me, Olivia." Soraka smiled. "I like him already."


	8. Magician's Entrance

While Olivia left to sort out a reasonable sleeping arrangement for her guest, Soraka gently took Graves by the elbow and led him back out of the Quarters, towards Central Fountain, a collection of small shops and cafes in the middle of the Institute.

Soraka studied Graves from the corner of her eye. The sheer amount of dark energies coiled around him was scary. She didn't know how he bore the burden. She could feel the heartbreak and anger roiling off of him like steam.

"Olivia said you came here for revenge."

Graves glanced at her. "That might be true."

"More likely you needed a change, I'm guessing."

"How'd you know?"

"Traveling people can't stay in one place for very long." Soraka looked up at the sky. "My people called it 'following the wind trails'."

"Very poetic," Graves huffed.

Soraka smiled. "Don't care for poetry?"

"Not anymore." _Not since Fate_. Graves scratched the side of his face, leaving twin trails of red. "Damn, these clothes are gettin' to me."

"Central Fountain might have something that fits you. Once you become a Champion, the League itself will provide. Until then, Olivia and I will."

"Why is that, anyhow? You women think I'm some - I dunno - charity case?"

"Some beings have compassion naturally." Soraka closed her eyes, tasting the summer breeze. There'd be rain soon. She could sense it in the tip of her horn.

"But she's Noxian," Graves mumbled. He raised his hand to a pair of Summoners who waved to him. Since he was taken care of by Olivia, they were free to communicate with him. News travelled fast in the Institute.

"Speaking of which - why do you hate Noxians?"

"Pah." Graves spat on the ground. "I'm from Bilgewater. We all hate Noxians."

"But why specifically?"

The energies around Malcolm flared a bright, bloody red. Soraka fought the urge to move away, as if he had actually caught fire, and maintained a look of tranquility on her face. Gritting his teeth, Graves said, "You ever been to Bilgewater? Most of us are poorer 'en dirt, and then the Noxians move there for the ocean and set up these huge fancy mansions. They'd walk their fluffy white dogs up and down the street and laugh when they'd chase us off." Graves glowered. "And they'd toss table scraps at us for fun."

"Did you ever eat them?" She saw Graves' eyes go blank with shame. He blinked and turned away.

"If you're hungry and someone's throwing food at you..."

"It's alright. Before I found the League, I ate everything from leaves to beetles." Soraka shrugged. "Not all Noxians are wealthy, though."

The side of Graves' mouth quirked. He was obviously thinking of the Noxians' servants or the parentless children, which weren't all that different from the kids in Bilgewater. After a moment he said, "I suppose you're right. Hopefully I didn't give that little lady the wrong first impression."

"Even if you did, it will be easy to remedy."

The Summoners - many wearing short, summery robes - parted around them they reached Central Fountain. Most of them were talking in excited murmurs. The knowledge of Olivia's challenge was sure to provide enough gossip for at least a few weeks.

Despite her Noxian heritage, she was well-liked within the League. Iorick himself had mentored her, shaping her summoning skills. But he couldn't simply enact an ordinance, then not remain strong on it, unless he wanted to be accused of favoritism and possibly removed from the position of Venerable Summoner - even if it meant kicking out his favorite student.

_These mortals are so easily amused. I've always been accustomed to conflicting factors, to things that don't necessarily mesh together_, Soraka thought. _Ah, Soraka. Don't be haughty_, she chided herself. _I can understand whythey're so captivated. Besides - I'm mortal now, too._

"You're not Noxian, are you?" Graves asked suddenly.

"Not in the least. I'm - let's just say I'm not from around here."

Central Fountain was a flea-market of sorts, not having been consolidated into a singular building yet. Soraka led Graves to one of the many clothing stores. He chose a few soft, white shirts and another cloak. At Soraka's urging, he added a pair of fine leather boots and loose pants to the bill. Soraka could sense and see the discomfort having someone else pay for his things caused.

"I have little use for the wages the League pays me anyway, Malcolm."

He sighed roughly. "I'll pay you back."

"I'm enjoying your company," she said over the noise of the Summoners.

He mouthed something. Soraka thought he said, "I doubt that." He ducked into one of the bathrooms and reappeared. His face had been scrubbed of grime, and he looked much more comfortable. Some of the irritation was gone.

"What do we do with these?" He thrust the sweaty clothes towards Soraka.

"Probably toss 'em. If you aren't too attached to them, that is."

"No, not at all." He launched them into a refuse can and continued to trail Soraka.

"Are you into Piltover cuisine?"

"I'm about sick of it. Been a few years of eating it."

She nodded and accosted one of the vendors, who served up two Bilgewater salads with spicy beef. The chunks of meat were dunked and smothered in a thick, red sauce. Soraka daintily ate around them as they walked back towards Olivia's quarters, ignoring Graves ravenously devouring it.

"I take it it tastes good," she said, quietly amused.

"Darn ri -" Graves halted, his knees locking.

Soraka stopped, too, eyes widening with confusion. Then she saw him.

Twisted Fate.

The Card Master was gamboling beside two pretty Novice girls. As Soraka and Graves watched, he made a rose appear from behind one of their ears. Given their angle, Graves could see the rose fade into existence, into his long magician's fingers.

So. He _was_ a sorcerer now.

He presented the rose to the young woman with a deep, dramatic bow. The blonde girl's green eyes lit up. Her partner dissolved into giggles.

Soraka had to grit her teeth against the tyranny of Graves' emotions. They battered her like a sea-faring storm. A howl of grief was locked behind Graves' tight, iron jaw.

Without being able to sense his emotions, Graves simply looked expressionless, except for a yellowish gleam in his eye.

And that said very little. Could've been hatred, or anger, or simply the way the sun hit his face.

_Oh, my. I hope I'm able to rectify this in two weeks. _

Soraka slowly put her hand on Graves shoulder and immediately regretted it as she was overwhelmed with six years of memories, twin voices.

* * *

_ Dammit, Fate, she's just a prostitute. Don't go kissing her like that. Disgusting._

_ Not anymore disgusting than the way you treat them..._

* * *

_ Fucking Twisted Fate. Always gets us into these messes. _

_ Hey! I got us out of it too..._

_Yeah. This one._

* * *

_ What did I say about the window, Fate?_

_ What, you scared of getting robbed by mosquitoes?_

* * *

_ Look, Malcolm. I told you I'd get us dinner. Even if it is at General Du Couteau's house. _

_ I'll be surprised if we walk outta this one..._

* * *

_ Do that trick where you fucking disappear and leave me alone._

_ Aww. Does little Malcolm need a hug...?_

* * *

_ I guess I am sort of fond of having you around. Just 'cause you're someone to split food with. And you know a lot of good stories._

_ Just say it, Malcolm. You like havin' a friend._

_ You're such a queer, Fate..._

* * *

_ I reckon you're pretty useful._

_ Finally admitting it, Malcolm? It's only been about three years._

_ We outlaws work slower than other people, alright?_

_ Alright...can't help that your brain runs on Bilgewater time..._

* * *

_ Fate's my right-hand man._

_ Graves is my left one. Get it? Cause he's useless. Aw c'mon Malcolm, I'm just messing around..._

_You dumbass. You're left-handed. Lord, lord. What I wouldn't give for a smart partner._

* * *

_ I guess I should say this now. Hmmm…_

_ Go on. You can say it._

_ Thank you. _

_ That's my boy. _

_ Doesn't mean you get to touch me, Fate. Get your hand off my damn shoulder._

* * *

_ That heist was cleaner than the prostitutes I'm gettin' tonight._

_ You know, I'd settle for a good beer and poker between the two of us. And if you call me queer, it's just because it's cheaper than a piece of ass. _

_ I'll win. You know I will._

_ Fate lose to a gunslinger like you? I don't think so..._

* * *

_ Damn, where'd the time go? _

_ Yeah. You think we would've grown up by now, opened an honest business._

_ Some people never quit their hustle. _

_ Those who don't usually don't make it out alive..._

* * *

_ You were like my brother. _

_ Yeah. I guess I was._

_ I should've known. I should've known that beneath those fucking pretty boy clothes you were more yellow-bellied than a turtle. Fuck you, Fate._

_ I ain't a queer, Malcolm._

_ Fuck you. I hate you. I HATE YOU!_

* * *

Soraka fought back tears. Feeling the depth of Fate's betrayal through Malcolm was astonishingly dark, onxy-colored, shot through with veins of red anger. It physically hurt her heart, burned it around the edges like acid. Her temples and throat throbbed. She understood why he didn't trust anyone. Who would, after having that sort of friendship split in two?

Twisted Fate didn't see them. He walked off, carefree, in the opposite direction, an arm slung around each girl's shoulder.

When he was out of sight, Soraka murmured, "I'm sorry."

Graves said nothing as they resumed walking. His silence was as pointed as he returned to eating his salad, saving the savory chunks for last.

"Don't be sorry," he grunted when he was finished. "It was a long time ago."

"It doesn't feel like that to you."

"When does it ever? The time I spent with Melena felt like months or days. It was the better part of a decade. People don't understand how quick life can go by. It -" Graves' eyes darkened. "It can run right by you like a high-tailed rabbit."

"He was your friend..."

"And now he's not." Graves shrugged indifferently. It would've been a good show to someone without Soraka's empathic powers.

"People leave you," she said softly. Graves' backbone stiffened.

"Doesn't matter. I do everything for myself." He turned to her. His dark eyes had grown even darker. Soraka took in the circles beneath his eyes, the stubble on his jaw. "You gotta help me get clean so I can blow him off the Rift."

Soraka fought the urge to fling her arms around his neck, to pull him close. She knew he'd hate her forever if she did it now. So she settled for a nod and a deep breath.

* * *

Twisted Fate knew something was wrong. He just didn't know what.

Something on the edges of his mind was bothering him. After acquiring his power, he knew to pay attention to that feeling, that little tug on the front of his brain.

_I have no idea what it is though...mayhaps I should go to the doctor._

After all, everything on the surface was fine. He was one of the most summoned Champions, fighting for everyone from Demacian noblemen to Freljordian diplomats. His magic abilities made him one of the most feared competitors.

The only lack in his life was a steady companion, but that shouldn't've bothered him all that much.

_Maybe because I'm getting old. I read about that somewhere. A steady companion does the heart some good past the age of thirty. Not that I look it. _

No. The magic made him look about twenty. The way things were proceeding, he'd look hardly more than a boy the rest of his life, if he even died.

That idea sent a shiver through him._ If_ he died. Not many beings could think that way.

So when he wasn't fighting on the Rift, he went about courting the girly Summoners. Sometimes he got a quick, hot roll in the hay with them, so that was alright, even if it didn't quench the longing in him for a friend.

He remembered Priggs laughing into his face, smelling of sweat and rancid milk. _I reckon you'll miss that Outlaw someday!_

No. No. Best not to dwell on what couldn't be changed.

Malcolm was surely dead by now, either in that prison, or at some other place. Probably a quick and brutal outlaw's death, gunned down like an old dog with rabies, buried in a shallow, unmarked grave.

As he made a rose appear between the blonde's breasts, he tried to shove the thought of Graves away, and lose himself in the light of lust in her eyes.

"What say we head back to my place and make those clothes disappear?"

"Only if you vanish your own, first." The blond winked. Her dark haired friend - a raven beauty if Fate had ever seen one - came closer.

"Mind if I join? We're best friends. We split everything."

_Best friends. We split it fifty-fifty. Except drinks are always on you._

Fate shook his head dizzily, trying to clear it, and pieced together his most charming smile.

"Why not? There's enough to go around."


	9. It Always Rains

Soraka and Graves made their way back to Olivia's Quarters and squatted on the marble steps in silence. In front of them, a fountain jetted water high into the air. The rush reflected the sun in dazzling rays before falling into the basin. The wind caught some of the vapor and blew it towards them, cooling the air like a kiss. In the south, gray clouds were gathering.

Thoroughly depressed, Graves looked away from Soraka, instead staring out at the Summoners bustling back and forth.

Soraka studied him, both physically and mentally, searching for clues to help him. He was pale, and the look didn't suit him. After the death of his wife, he probably hadn't seen much sunlight. Drink all night, sleep all day.

His broad back and shoulders still had some muscle to them, though she guessed he hadn't exercised in a while. And the muscles weren't for show – no, their shape told her they were the muscles of necessity. What caught her eye was the ruggedness of his jawline, the dark hair accenting it. She thought his eyes, though dark, held tiny traces of amber in them.

Without turning his head, he said, "Quit lookin' at me."

Soraka sighed and hugged her knees. "You don't take too kindly to human contact, do you?"

"You ain't human."

Soraka's eyebrows rose. _Well, that hurt. He should wear a sign that says _Approach with Caution. "I was thinking that you're rather handsome, and that your wife was lucky to have you." She edged closer to him, despite seeing the tendons in his neck tighten. "How did she die?"

Graves' eyes smoldered with anger. He still refused to look at her. "Why are you so damn nosy, anyways?"

"Malcolm. Please." She looked around and leaned towards him. Her breath tickled the side of his ear. "If you want to fight the Card Master, you have to get clean. And to get clean, I have to know as much as possible about you to heal you better."

Graves pulled away. "That sounds like a load of shit."

"It actually isn't."

He sighed and put his head in his knees. "I think magic is a load of shit."

"Seems to be your dominating opinion on everything." She stroked his neck, expecting his back to stiffen. Instead, he looked up at her. Those dark eyes said everything – Soraka hadn't seen such weariness, such heartbreak, since Warwick had come carrying his dead wife to her…

"Did you see him, though? He was with them girls, probably no more than sixteen. He's two decades older than them. That's – that's disgusting." Graves looked away. "He's always been like that."

"A pedophile?" Soraka's nose wrinkled.

"No, no. Not quite." Graves sought for the right words. "More of a…womanizer. He liked the younger girls because they were always impressed with him. The older ones knew he was a bullshitter. But Fate would always have flowers and kisses. He'd leave a whole train of broken hearts behind him whenever we left a place. Probably popped more cherries than –" Graves saw the look of disgust on Soraka's face and paused. "Er, sorry."

"I'm just not accustomed to dealing with such a rugged and nasty world."

"Where you from, then? I know you ain't Bilgewater blooded."

Soraka shook her head. "I used to make my home in the forests of Ionia. An enchanted forest."

"Boy, this place is just full of magic, ain't it? Why are you here? Ionia's a good deal more peaceful."

Soraka smiled sadly, looking out over the Institute. "Someone betrayed my kindness. Same as you."

Graves' face hardened into a stubbornness Soraka had already seen. Internally, she sighed. _I'll learn to speak his language correctly eventually. Stars help me._

"Wasn't kindness. Kindness gets you killed. I ain't weak."

"Well, we were both betrayed, then."

"Who was it?"

"A Champion. He also lives here."

Graves sat up, eyes wide. "Really? You sure you ain't just kiddin' me to heal me or something?"

"I'm not. His name is Warwick."

"So you got into the League to get revenge on him. So I guess it does work."

Soraka cocked her head. Her anger at Warwick had dissipated long ago. In fact, she often reflected that she'd done much more good in the world as a roaming healer than one attached to the enchanted grove. And mortality was an interesting experience.

Still, she nodded. "Essentially, yes. But I also didn't show up with an alcohol problem."

Malcolm's eyes burned with a dark intensity. "You're gonna help me get over it, though, and then I'm gonna blow his fool head off over and over again."

"To do that, you have to get clean first."

Graves paused. "Can't you just…get rid of it?"

"Get rid of what? An addiction you've had for over twenty years? If I could do that, I'd be more than a healer. I'd be a god."

"But you can help me with it," he said carefully. "And to do that, you need to know about me."

"It helps." Soraka shifted, considering her next words. _How much should I tell him? I know he lives in a world of harsh truths, but still_…

She sought the stars for guidance, instinctively tilting her head towards the sky. Though obscured by growing clouds, their familiar song filled her head, whispering like windchimes. "Much of your problem is dark energy," she said at last.

Malcolm grunted. "No doctor I ever knew could tell that. Half of them couldn't even tell the common cold from the stomach flu."

_Well, he certainly took that well, _Soraka thought_._ "In order to speed your healing – since Olivia's on a tight timetable – we need to work together to rid you of it. To get rid of the anger, the sadness –"

"Does that really matter? My feelings?" Graves looked at her, brow furrowed.

Soraka cocked her head. "Of course your feelings matter, Malcolm."

"Never mattered before. Outlaws who get sad don't last long. You bury it and move on to the next thing."

"That might be why there's so much of it just hovering there, around you. You've never dealt with it." She studied his face intently, drawn to its lines. "It's there. Beneath your skin."

Graves scooted away uneasily. "No offense, but you're creepin' me out, darlin'. You sound like one of those crystal salesmen. A lot of people fall for 'em."

Soraka shook herself out of her mini-trance. "You could've used some of their wares."

Malcolm paused. "So am I…possessed? By demons? I, uh –" He scrubbed at his dark hair, embarassed. "I read a book about that once."

Soraka hid her smile behind her hand. "No, no. I understand if you're a little concerned about that, though. You're just possessed by buried feelings."

"How do I fix it?" Within those brown eyes, Soraka read desperation. It probably didn't take a healer to see it, either.

"I'll help you. We'll just have to talk it out."

Olivia chose that moment to exit the double doors. The frustration on her face was clearly visible as taut lines around her eyes and a tightly drawn mouth. Soraka tugged the bottom of her robes and she whirled around, eyes flashing. "I'm sorry, I don't have time – oh. Soraka."

"Care to sit? It's not the most comfortable thing in the world, but the weather's nice. I love the air before storms."

Olivia settled next to Soraka with a huff. "Sometimes the Institute is very stupid."

"What happened?" Graves felt a sinking sensation inside, starting at his breastbone and working its way down. _Aw hell. I hope I'm not about to get kicked_.

Olivia sensed the edges of his thought. "Oh, nothing that bad. They just won't assign you a special place to sleep because you're neither Summoner, Novice or Champion. I doubt Zandred would take kindly to letting you stay with me –"

"I know better than to touch someone else's woman, unlike a certain magician I used to know."

"It's not that. Damn, for a Bilgerat, you have a dirty mind. I thought that was my job." Glowering, Olivia stretched her back. "It's just that Zandred doesn't really like anyone being near me for long periods of time."

"You've never told me about that." Leaning forward, Soraka frowned. "I didn't realize he'd be so possessive."

"He's really protective. Don't you know what happened to him? He – " Olivia stopped, seeing Graves' intent look. The Outlaw turned away. "Never mind. I'll tell you later."

Graves grumbled something that sounded like "left out of the loop," which Soraka and Olivia chose to ignore.

"So what are we going to do? Any ideas, Raka?"

"He can stay in my room, if he doesn't mind. I can set up a cot."

She and Olivia looked to Graves to see his reaction. He steadfastly remained turned away, his dark cloak as unreadable as the face of a mountain.

"Won't people talk?" Olivia asked in a low voice. In the stormlight, Soraka thought she appeared ancient, like the black-skinned goddess some Ionians worshipped. "I wouldn't want to harm your reputation."

Soraka blinked. "I have a reputation to keep? I was under the impression Champions were allowed to do as they please. Besides, while expending copious energy healing him, I doubt I'll have any fortitude left to expend on romantic advances."

"She'll be too tired to fuck," Graves translated, seeing the blank look on Olivia's face.

"Oh," Olivia said softly. "Sorry, it's been a long day, and Soraka's language gets a little…out there sometimes."

"You have a pretty large vocabulary, Malcolm." Soraka's golden eyes held the look of approval.

"I used to read a lot." He scrubbed at his jaw and sighed deeply. This wasn't close at all to where he thought he'd be at the age of thirty-six.

When he was younger, he always thought he'd retire to one of those huge, Noxian mansions at Bilgewater, the kind with servants and an iron fence.

Around the age of seventeen, he thought of buying a boat and sailing the ocean for years on end. He dreamt of fighting storms and pirates.

Fate had brought visions of hookers and blackjack and poker for the rest of his days.

Melena had filled him with the idea of sons and daughters and a farm, a quiet life tending crops and raising horses and children. A good life.

And here he was, at an Institute, a black Noxian woman on one side, a purple unicorn on the other. Things could get really weird really fast.

"We should go get him set up in my room, then," Soraka said, standing. She brushed dust from the front of her pale blue frock she wore. Her mouth was quirked in a sad smile.

"What's the rush? I just got out here."

A small roll of thunder issued from the south. The Summoners bustling around in front of them looked to the sky. Then, almost as one, they pulled their hoods over their heads and started bustling faster.

"Well, it's about to rain, and Graves is about to experience severe withdrawal. I'd like to have him a safe place."

"Severe withdrawal?" Graves frowned. "Is it really gonna be that bad? It's just alcohol."

"Have you ever come off it before?"

Graves got up, ignoring Olivia's questing glance. _God, these people look like they've never seen an outlaw before. _"No, suppose I haven't."

"You're going to be in a lot of pain."

"Bah. I've gotten beatings up one side my back and down the other. Not too worried." He pulled his cloak around him tighter, against the wind. It was picking up speed now, whipping the vapor from the fountain toward them. Olivia squinted as the water tickled her nose.

She looked to Graves. "Who beat you?"

"A lot of people."

Soraka took him by the elbow. Graves thought of tugging away from her, but refrained. It actually felt pretty soothing. Her touch seemed to soothe the frayed nerve endings near the top of his skin, cooling them.

"You wouldn't object to a massage when we get there, would you, Malcolm? It's my job," she hastily added.

"That sounds good." He squinted into the sky, looking at the gathering clouds.

Storms always reminded him of Melena. She loved nothing better than a good storm. A memory floated before him, as diffuse as the water vapor drifting around him. Melena as they first met, sitting by a swollen river, blue-and-white dress hiked to her knees. Looking up at him with wide, terrified eyes, like a startled colt. Her trying to clamber up the red-clay riverbanks. She kept sliding down. _Malcolm!_

_Grab me! I've got you!_ But the flash flood and the roaring thunder confused her senses.

Graves knew if he didn't act she'd get washed away. He dove down the slimy wet clay and finally hefted her above her shoulders – he was strong from woodworking.

And how she'd clung to him as the sky battered them both, first with fat drops, then with balls of hail. When the ice came, Graves shifted her beneath his cloak, protecting her as best he could. By the time they made it to her father's house, they were both drenched and cold.

Graves would never forget the look on her father's face when he flung the door open – astonishment, then slow recognition. He clasped Graves' shoulder. _Thanks, son._ Then he whisked Melena away. Her mother made Graves strip out of his clothes. He flushed as she toweled him off. Bruises were already starting to gather on his back. _Ah, I've seen plenty. Ain't got nothin' to hide._

He and Melena spent a few days recovering together. Both of them had caught a bad cold, so they sat up and solved crosswords together. Melena's mother taught him to knit. And when night came around, Graves would read to her, and she would read to him.

At the Institute, Graves gritted his teeth. His sorrow reached out from him. Soraka squeezed him. "It'll be alright," she said in a low voice. Malcolm shook his head. He started to say something, but stopped.


	10. The Other Side of the Coin

Fate stretched his back and looked at the ceiling, thinking. His latest conquests were lying cuddled side by side, the blanket pulled over their breasts. The blonde's soft, silky hair was pooled on the pillow behind her. Her black-haired friend breathed in and out in tiny snores.

Neither one of them could be anything older than seventeen. If their tight breasts and asses hadn't been enough proof – the blonde's room was painted a rosy pink, and she had to clear plushies from her bed before their conjugation. The bloom of embarrassment high on her cheeks aroused Fate even more.

Fate quashed a pang of guilt and went to pull on his pants with a deep sigh.

Something was wrong, something not even an explosive bit of fucking could fix. He looked into the blonde's wall mirror, wincing when he saw how brightly his golden eyes glowed in the gloom. That was the only thing he regretted about gaining his magical powers – the loss of his azure eyes. Almost every girl he'd bedded had complimented him on them. Hell, even Malcolm referred to him as his personal Blue Eyed Trickster, another name they used for the Devil in Bilgewater.

"_You and I could trick the Devil himself, Fate." Malcolm smiled and clinked his bottle against Fate's own. It was rare to see the Outlaw happy. Fate enjoyed seeing the hardness melt out of his face. No particular reason why. He just liked to see the inside of people._

Fate shook his head, still studying his reflection. _Has that old bastard found a way to haunt me? He'd do it, too. Stubborn._

Behind him, the blonde stirred. Fate tugged his tight black shirt on and planted a kiss on her cheek. She smiled, still sleeping. _Wish I could stick around. Ah, well. A magician's best exits are sneaky._

He picked his way surreptitiously through the Novice Quarters, unseen.

The air outside was cool, freshening with a light spring rain. Fate closed his eyes, pulling the air deep into his lungs, clearing his nostrils of the scent of sex. Summoners and Novices whirled and eddied around him.

But something was still wrong.

_Damn. I should add this feeling to my list of regrets of getting these powers. _

Priggs had explained it – the experiment would send the levels of Standard Beta power in his body soaring, but every once in a while, he'd experience an Overflow state, where he'd feel the effects of Empath and Pulsefire magic, too. At the time, it had all sounded like so much gibberish, but a bit of studying helped Fate understand it.

Standard Beta was what his powers operated off of. Generally golden-yellow in color (which explained his eyes), Standard Beta was a straight forward damage tool. Unlike Standard Alpha, Fate could manipulate matter – causing himself to teleport, or a rose to bloom between a blonde's breasts.

Empath magic dealt with the emotions of others. It generally conferred "psychic" powers to the user, and often took a silver form when it was expressed externally. He'd read a couple of books that suggested Empath simply heightened the senses one already had. Fate wasn't so sure.

Pulsefire was the rarest of all of them, a fiery blue energy that manipulated ions. Fate had heard tell of Pulsefire users starting hurricanes, tornadoes, auroras. He hoped one day to acquire the power...somehow. But the Piltover scientists hadn't figured out how Pulsefire operated in the body.

Standard Alpha and Beta could be found in the muscle tissue as electrical charges. Empath was found in the brain. Something to do with the connection of nerve cells, Fate had gathered. Pulsefire had no bodily center that had been found yet. Some scientists even went as far to speculate that it was found in a sort of "soul," a collection of electrical charges hovering near the skin.

Which brought Fate to his current problem – he felt a terrible premonition, probably because his latent Empath powers were flaring up.

After staring out into the crowd of Summoners and feeling the dreadful prickle dance over his skin, he decided to do what he used to do, what had gained him so many hustles in the past.

He decided to sit and listen.

He made his way to Central Fountain, taking a seat by an outdoor Ionian restaurant after buying a coffee. He wrapped his cloak around his shoulders and waited. And waited.

Malcolm had been particularly bad at this part. As a man of action, he was more likely to rob the nearest bystander than to sit and wait. While such a straightforward approach was good sometimes, the quiet tactic worked as well.

Fate's interest piqued as two Summoners sat at a table beside him. Alex and Peke – two of the top Summoners at the Institute, indicated by the slight gold shimmers in their violet robes. Both summoned him as often as they could.

"Iorick just instituted the policy," Alex was saying, dark eyes flashing. "Olivia has terrible luck."

"Didn't she just become an actual Summoner?" Peke mumbled around a forkful of food. "A couple days ago?"

"Yesterday, I think. And the first Champion she finds is a raging alcoholic. She has to get him clean in two weeks or she gets kicked out of the Institute."

"Damn. I'm not talking to anyone but Summoners."

"I know, right? Regi said she just ran into him and Zandred forced her to help him."

Fate sipped at his coffee.

"What sort of Champion is he? If it's a new mage…" Peke looked at the sky. "I'll probably become acquainted myself."

"No idea. I think he might be a Carry. He has a huge gun – we're talking massive." Alex's eyes twinkled merrily. "Maybe compensating for something."

Fate sipped his coffee again, trying to stop the sinking feeling in his stomach. Two tiny beads of sweat rolled from his temples to jaw. _Oh God no. Please. _

"His name is Graves or something like that. Something real try-hard."

Fate's heart kicked against his ribs, once, twice. He left the coffee cup on the table and fled, cloak whirling behind him. _No. No. He's dead. _

But the fiery dance along the nerves in his skin had ceased at last with this new knowledge, and Fate knew it wasn't so.

* * *

Rain lightly speckled the sidewalks as Graves followed Soraka and Olivia towards the Supports' Quarters. Graves didn't want to admit it, but fatigue was already pressing in at the edges of his mind, sort of like the strands of gray fog rising from the damp stone.

_I haven't even done anything yet_, he thought. _I used to be able to haul five-hundred pounds of wood a day and not break a sweat. Well, not much of one. Gettin' old._

That wasn't his primary concern. Rather, from the glimpse he'd gotten of Fate, the magician hadn't seemed to age a single day. The Card Master still had the same jaunty spring in his step, and not a streak of gray in his dark mane. It wasn't fair.

_Nothin's fair, Malcolm. _

That was the rallying cry in a world of tricks and double crosses. The Noxians in Bilgewater said as much with their sneers. Graves had used 'it's not fair' when he fleeced people out of hundreds of pounds of gold.

And it was the sentiment he'd seen in Fate's eerie blue eyes and he lay there chained to the bed in Demacia, only able to watch as Fate handed the keys to Priggs.

Of course, it wasn't fair that Melena's child had killed her. He knew what Doc and Albrecht, her father, thought. Bilgewater seed is poisonous and bears deadly fruit.

It wasn't fair that the only acts of genuine affection in his life had wrought the greatest destruction.

Soraka took his hand in hers, startling him. It was smooth and soft. "Are you alright, Malcolm?"

"No," he muttered.

Olivia hovered behind him. "I'm not even that great of an empath, and I can feel your pain." She twirled a lock of black hair around her finger. The humidity was beginning to make it frizz.

Malcolm thought of telling her she resembled a Noxian whore he'd once had, but decided against it.

"Y'all can read my mind?"

"Soraka can. I can only feel what you do."

Graves bit his lip. "That's private stuff." They dodged a group of laughing Summoners, some of them wearing comically-oversized rain boots. "I'd prefer if you didn't."

"I'm sorry. I can't really help it." Soraka squeezed his hand. "Your thoughts are so – what's the word, Olivia?"

"Visible? Loud? It's hard to talk about senses when you're talking about empathy."

"Close enough. Strong, maybe. Your grief is strong."

"Why shouldn't it be?" Graves took his hand away from Soraka's and rubbed at his eyes.

"It's fine to feel like that." Sotto voce, she sent to Olivia, _We have a lot of work to do_.

_Agreed. _

When they arrived at the Supports' Quarters, Taric was standing outside holding a gaudy yellow umbrella. Despite being dressed down from his armor, wearing simple slacks and a shirt, he drew a scrutinizing look from Graves. He barely came up to Graves' shoulders.

"Howdy?"

"Greetings. I hope your stay here is wonderful. If you need any amenity, anything at all - " Taric's eyes shone.

Soraka made a _cut it out_ gesture across her neck. Olivia stifled a laugh.

"I'll be happy to assist you," he concluded.

"Ummm. Thanks." Graves shook his head. _This place is chock full of fucking weirdos_.

"You might want to tone down the warmth, friend," Soraka murmured. "He's a little unsure of this place."

"He's in a lot of pain, isn't he?" Taric cocked his head. "What a shame."

"We're hoping he won't be. We have to get rid of his alcohol problem."

"Ah." Taric clasped her on the shoulder. "We should be able to do it. What do you need me to do?"

"Set up a cot for him." Soraka sighed. "And start brewing black coffee. A lot of it."

* * *

Twisted Fate slammed into the Mages' Quarters with a shudder. The four or five Champions and Summoners who sat in the lobby looked up, startled.

"What's wrong, Fate? You look like you've seen a ghost," one of the Summoners commented.

"Where's LeBlanc?"

"In her room." Evelynn studied her nails, hiding her jealousy. She and Fate had been good for a roll in the hay or two, but LeBlanc seemed to have become something more. Not quite a girlfriend – no, no powerful Noxian woman would ever permit herself having such a flimsy title. But a friend, yes.

Fate nodded and tugged at his goatee, then hurried away, leaving the mages and Summoners. Morgana looked to Evelynn and hid her smile. "You look a little upset."

"Not at all. A scurvy dog isn't worth being upset over."

Fate found LeBlanc in her room painting a still-life of a bouquet of roses he'd bought her a couple days ago. The petals had begun to wilt, turning black at the edges. Just the way she liked them. The sound of Noxian opera issued from her small record player.

She looked behind her shoulder. "Fate."

"LeBlanc." He scrubbed at his face and collapsed on her bed, after shutting the door. His boots hung off the bottom of the bed.

"You've been active today, hmm? I can smell it." She put the paintbrush daintily into her mouth, to smear the red and black tones across the canvas with her fingers.

"I can shower later."

"What, no effusive description of today's events?" LeBlanc muttered through the stick of the brush. She frowned – the shape of one of the petals didn't look quite right. Not enough black.

Fate sighed. "Nothing much to talk about. Two Novice girls. One blonde, one not."

"Two, hmm? Moving up I see." She glanced back at him and saw the blank look on his face. "What's wrong?"

"Did I ever tell you about Malcolm?"

"Do you want the honest answer?"

Fate's brow furrowed. "Yes." _Why would there be a dishonest answer? Oh, LeBlanc._

"Only when you've drank. A lot. When we hung out in the speakeasies. You'd mention him. I'd never pry, but you'd always cut yourself off. Very secretive, very hush hush. I figured he was a lover."

Fate's laugh turned into a cough. "No, no. And no."

"Mm. Whatever you say."

The Card Master sat up. "He wasn't, LeBlanc."

LeBlanc nodded and returned to her work. "If you'd wanted the dishonest answer, I'd've said I've never heard of him. Which is sort of true, in a way. I've never heard you say his name when you were sober." Over her shoulder she added, "Do you want to talk about him?"

Fate hugged his knees. He and LeBlanc had shared plenty of stories – some of the tales of her intrigue and betrayal were enough to turn his stomach cold. But how did one explain what had happened between him and Graves without sounding like a complete ass?

The answer was simple, he realized. One didn't.

Fate swallowed hard. "You're going to hate me."

"If I were going to hate you, I'd've done it already, Fate."

"We met. We rode together. I betrayed him."

"Oh." LeBlanc shrugged. "That wasn't that bad."

"No, I suppose not." But were there really words for the six years he and Graves rode together? For all the stories they'd swapped and the money they'd made? The long nights around the campfire, drinking and smoking?

Six years, shoulder to shoulder.

Fate put his head down.

After a moment, he heard LeBlanc rest her palette and paints on the table, and walk over to him to comfort him. The scent of violets and lilacs – and roses, of course – rose up to him as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He reckoned they'd be quite a sight. A deadly sorcerer and the leader of a resistance movement, arms entwined like scared children.

"You can tell me anything, Fate. You know that."

Fate swallowed again. "I just – I don't know if I can say it."

"Listen, I'll go get some coffee and then you spill it. You'll feel better. Believe me." She left, her black-and-white polka dot dress swishing behind her. Fate had to admit he loved the way she dressed off the Rift. Some of the female Champions let themselves go straight to Hell, but LeBlanc always looked pretty – even if she wore clothes that didn't necessarily become her age.

She came back minutes later with an entire pot of coffee and two porcelain cups dangling lazily from her pinkies. She sat them down in front of Fate, pulled over an end table and chair, and leaned her head on her hands. "Tell me about him."

Fate did.

* * *

One night at Rudy's, I sat across from an outlaw. The winnings' pot was pretty big, but I had had bigger on the underground gambling circuit in Noxus. Those poker pots often included slaves and mansions, not bogus titles to half-dead horses.

Still, the young man across from me had the most intense look on his face, as heated as a July sunset. His gaunt face was tightly drawn, and a hungry light burned in his dark hazel eyes. It was clear that these winnings were the largest this young man had ever seen, and he was determined to get them.

I saw him sneak the aces from his sleeve, but said nothing, amused by my partner's dedication. Besides, the way he'd done it – reaching up to scratch his hand as it lie on the table four times, over the course of half an hour – had been so subtle, no one else would've caught it.

Even before his transformation, I had a bit of the gift of reading people. I thought that the man across from me was rough but lonely, and loyal to death when he chose to be. I was getting tired of having nothing but whores for company, so I let the guy across from me flip aces.

What really impressed me was how well the outlaw hid his surprise. One brilliant, shooting star wink of shock, then back to that lean look. He was a bit angry, I knew. That was understandable.

I used his customary showmanship to get Graves to come with me. For a few brief moments, I thought he wasn't going to follow. But he did.

I liked him immediately. He was rough and callous and seemed shallow at first, but gradually showed more and more of himself. Beneath that external hardiness, he had a dark sense of humor and a bit of a depressive nature.

I never doubted his loyalty, either. Graves never cheated me. I reciprocated. Soon we simply had a joint stash where we both could come and go as we pleased, never using more or less money than the other expected.

When we did spend a lot, it was together, on raucous outings, gambling sprees, whores, liquor, foxweed. But other than that we were simple men. I liked fancier clothes than Graves did, while Graves preferred better wine.

We made quite a name for themselves, I knew. Graves either didn't notice our infamy or didn't care. But I knew our names were whispered in the highest of criminal circles. Occasionally, emissaries from Noxus approached me, assuming I was the brains of the two. I always turned them down. I wasn't sure why. If I was going only for money, I should've taken their offer…but I liked living with Graves and Graves alone. Things were simpler that way.

Until Priggs.

A lot of people have been driven to do stupid things in the name of greed. Priggs offered me a chance at becoming a sorcerer, and I took it, and gave up Malcolm, and never looked back.

* * *

LeBlanc's lips were tightly pursed.

Fate shifted uneasily. His back hurt. "Well?"

"That's pretty cold," LeBlanc said at last. Fate felt a freezing sensation in his chest.

"I know, I know."

"He wouldn't have seen it coming," LeBlanc added. "I know the kind of man you're talking about. It would've surprised him as much as a wasp sting."

"I think that's why…that's why I feel so bad. If he had been a double-crosser – like you, or Priggs, or someone else – I wouldn't have felt bad in the slightest. No offense, m'lady."

LeBlanc nodded. "Because we're used to that sort of thing. We expect it."

"But Malcolm…" Fate ran a hand through his hair. "Dammit, LeBlanc. This just makes me feel worse."

"Why bring it up?" LeBlanc studied him. "It's probably been a while."

"Oh. Um. He's here."

LeBlanc blinked. "What?"

"Malcolm. He's here at the Institute."

"Fate, for a gambler, you have some real shitty luck." LeBlanc tried to hide her smile but couldn't. "Oh, I don't know why that's so funny."

"Ah, don't worry about it." Fate sighed. "I'd be laughin' if it happened to you, too."

"Did you think he was dead?"

"Aye. Priggs is a rough warden."

"That he is." LeBlanc shook her head. The record in her record player came to a crackling stop. The two sat in companionable silence for a while. "So, what are you going to do?"

"Fuck, I don't know." Fate closed his eyes.

"What do you want to do?" LeBlanc looked at him, stroking his cheek.

"What I really want to do?" Fate chuckled. "Apologize."

"Ha. Good one, Fate."

"I really do want to," Fate murmured. "It'll never happen, though."

"So apologize to him."

Fate shook his head. "I know Malcolm. He'll never – he'll never forgive me."

"So?" LeBlanc shrugged. "The apology's for you, not for him. Besides, on the off-chance he does accept it, you'll have your friend back."

Fate felt a tingle in his stomach. "It's been awhile. A whole decade for him to sit on what I did and let it burn him."

"Come on, Fate." LeBlanc smiled. "Take a chance."


	11. Sleep

_N.B. Thank you to each and every person reading this story! _

Greenery greeted Malcolm. The inside of the Supports' Quarters looked almost like a verdant forest, perhaps an echo of the enchanted grove Soraka had spoken about. A circle of doors enclosed a verdant field. Rocks with mossy grooves sat beneath a burbling mini-waterfall, and wildflowers in hues of red and orange sprawled across the little plain.

The center of the field was a tall oak, stretching upwards to the clear ceiling. Its leaves bobbed gently, as if in welcome. Seeing Soraka's questing glance, Graves nodded. "Pretty."

"Glad you like it. If you need anything, ask one of us. That fellow following us is Taric. I'll introduce you to Sona and Janna later." Soraka pushed her silvery hair away from her face.

_Perhaps all he needed was a change in environment. He feels a little better already._

Graves looked over. "I reckon we should get down to business. One of the first things I ever learned was to not waste time. So, how exactly does this work?"

"Are you familiar with the concept of therapy? Serious question," Olivia added, seeing anger about to flare up in Graves' face.

"I heard it's for sissies."

"It isn't. You talk to 'Raka, you'll feel better."

"There's a bit more to it than that." Soraka smiled and gestured upward. "Since I'm a healer, I may use the power of the stars to put you in a trance."

"Not too sure how I feel about that. I'm a bit leery of trances." Graves grimaced.

"You'll be heavily protected. Despite our looks, Taric, Sona, Janna and I are quite strong."

Graves looked up to the glass ceiling, at the underbelly of the gray rain-clouds. The rain was light but insistent, assuredly soaking everything it its wake. At last he sighed. "I'm guessing I don't have a choice, if I want to get a shot at Fate."

"There are more benefits to joining the League than just that," Olivia said. Soraka winced internally. Doubtlessly Zandred had given her pointers on how to retain Graves, and this little speech was one of them. "You'll be fighting for the highest cause – peace in Runeterra, and eventually all of Valoran."

Graves gave her a weary look. "Do you think I care? This peace you're talking about…it may affect you, but at the lowest levels, there's always gonna be war. Thought you'd know that, Ms. Noxus."

Olivia flinched, flustered. Soraka stepped forward, laying a cooling hand on Malcolm's shoulder. Already the skin was growing feverish, and when Graves licked his lips, Soraka knew the thirst was beginning to get to him.

She pulled him towards her room.

Taric did good work. A cot – almost sumptuous enough to be called a bed – rested at one end of the room. It was covered in fluffy navy pillows and a crisp white blanket. A pot of black coffee sat on an end table beside it. "Here's where you'll call home for the couple weeks."

Graves shrugged.

"Like you said, I expect it's best to begin right away. So if you'll get yourself cleaned up and comfortable…"

Without looking back, he stalked towards the bathroom to the right. His cloak caught on a small bronze statuette of Irae, the Goddess of the Stars. It wobbled but didn't fall.

When the door shut, Soraka collapsed into one of the chairs by the door, sighing and massaging her temples. Olivia sat in the other one. "That bad, huh?"

"The energy coming off of him is just…constant. I'm not surprised he had to drink."

"I'm troubled too. I'm no longer sure how to feel about Card Master."

Soraka looked up. "Mm, that's right. I forgot you primarily summoned mages."

"Fate was my favorite, but now – Graves seems to hate him so much. The only impression I can get from his thoughts is of how much he hates him."

"Be thankful you aren't getting more." Soraka poured a cup of coffee and took an appreciative sip. Olivia studied her.

"So what exactly do I do while this is going on?"

"I suppose you can check in on him every day. It's a pity your powers aren't stronger."

"If they were, I'd be a Champion, and wouldn't be in this stupid mess." The Noxian closed her eyes. "I feel so helpless."

"Perhaps finding Fate and talking to him will help. Though he may be Malcolm's enemy, he shouldn't be yours.

Olivia nodded and clasped both of Soraka's hands in hers. She nodded.

The water poured over Graves' body, beating at his tired muscles, enveloping them. It was hard to press Fate's face from his mind after seeing him today. The figure of his friend blitzed him like a jolt of lightning. Graves forced the thoughts away, letting his mind drift instead towards Soraka.

Got a bad feeling about this. I never was one for telling secrets.

But even if he didn't give up his secrets now, he figured that, come the withdrawal, he'd tell her anything she wanted – even that the sky was her favorite shade of purple instead of blue. That whole thing about people holding out in the face of torture was a lot of bunk.

The only person to hold out he'd ever seen was Fate. Fate had taken a living flame to the heek and hadn't batted an eyelash. 'Course, after a gypsy upbringing –

Stop thinking about him, damnit. Damnit straight to Hell.

The water was losing its warmth. Graves didn't mind – the chill invigorated him.

Stop thinking.

"You look like you have a lot on your mind, Fate," Eve said. She vanished and reappeared in front of him. He almost brushed her aside, then decided against it. She didn't deserve all that.

"Aye. Thinking men often do."

"Men think? I was under the impression they did something else."

She was gone again. Fate felt her fingers brush his lower belly. He touched the rim of his hat. "Already had a double serving today, Eve."

She showed up by his shoulder. "I hear it's like ice cream. It gets better the more you eat."

"You never more one for similes."

He pulled his hat down father and walked away, rehearsing his apology. Malcolm, I'm sorry. I'm sorry you spent twelve years of your life in prison. Fate winced, and tried again. I'm sorry I fucked you over. I'm sorry I ditched you.

How long had Malcolm sat in Prigg's prison, looking out the window – if his cell even had one – expecting Fate to show up to save him? How many times had Graves broke into one prison or another, gun blazing, to save Fate?

Guilt sat in his chest, a black, gelid mass, covered in teeth.

Malcolm, I'm sorry.

Fate leaned against a shop wall, and a harsh sigh escaped his lips. Some Novices reconized him and hurried away.

"What do you even say to that?" he murmured to himself.

"You tell me."

Fate looked over. A young, dark-skinned Noxian woman hurried towards him, her purple robe drawn protectively around her massive of black hair.

"Ah, the lovely Olivia. How goes it?"

Olivia looked at him, really studied him. He saw doubt in her amber eyes, and the guilt increased ten-fold. He was Olivia's favorite Champion.

On days the Novices summoned for practice, she always chose him, often many times in a row. He wondered idly what Graves had told her.

"I heard you're in charge of a certain Mr. Graves." His eyes flared with golden light, then faded.

Olivia nodded. "An old friend of yours, I take it." She took a deep breath. "Fate, I'm in charge – "

"You're in charge of getting him into the League. I'm aware."

"His anger at you is consuming him. He's – I'm afraid it'll kill him."

"Hasn't done it yet," Fate murmured laconically, and hated himself. He liked Olivia, but she was allied with Graves until further notice. And you were never friends with your enemy's friends.

"But Fate - I was thinking of how to fix it," she said breathlessly. He heard the high keening note of desperation in her voice. _Can this day get any worse? What's next, Pa rising from the grave and smacking me for looking queer?_

But that was less likely to happen, as Fate actually knew he was dead. He'd seen his Pa die, in fact, torn to pieces by Ionian wolves Fate may or may not have accidentally summoned.

Rain ran down Olivia's velvety chocolate skin, jeweling her thick eyelashes. "I was just thinking…if you could apologize to him..."

"Olivia. He'll kill me on sight."

"He didn't earlier today."

"What?"

"He saw you earlier, out walking."

"He saw me and I didn't see him?" He ran both hands through his thick, dark hair and blew out the breath he was holding. "Alright. Alright. I will. But when?"

"I'll ask Soraka." Relief shone plainly in Olivia's eyes, and Fate felt a measure of relief for himself. Olivia had a lot of potential as a Summoner, and Fate didn't want to let her down. Lord knows he'd disappointed enough people.

As if reading his thoughts, she said, "I don't think you're a bad person."

"Well, there's always two sides to a coin."

Soraka was paging through the thickest book Graves had ever seen. The gold leaf on the edge of the pages winked mutedly in the dim light. Without looking up, she asked, "How long has it been since you showered?"

Graves smiled into his goatee. "A while." He clasped the cup of coffee in his hands, grateful for its warmth.

Soraka found the page she was looking for and flipped the book to show him. Graves squinted. The characters were some sort of archaic rune Graves hadn't seen outside the ancient tombs of Shurimana. And there, he and Fate had been too busy snatching jewels to study the runes long.

The main focus was a large illustration of a nude man, surrounded by what Graves guessed represented negative energy. The little imps looked rather like Yordles. He grunted. "Nice porn."

Soraka shook her head. "It's tips on healing someone like you."

"What makes you so sure you can?" Graves sipped his coffee and looked past 'Raka, into the gloom. "Mayhaps I'm beyond saving. You ever think about that, healer?"

"Your wife didn't think that, did she?" Soraka asked gently. Graves winced as a burning pain shot through his chest.

"No, she didn't."

"Finish that," 'Raka said, gesturing to his coffee. She closed her book, markin the place with a strip of silk embroidered with shooting stars.

Graves obediently drained the rest of his cup as Soraka dug through her wardrobe. She pulled out vials of liquid and body paint, scrolls, a set of silver scales and musty books until she found what she was looking for – a large, egg-shaped lump of Freljordian crystal. In the half-light, it seemed to glow on its own, as if containing secretive moonlit mist.

Graves looked at it skeptically. "Looks like something I used to hustle."

"Mm. Worth a lot, aren't they?"

"Yar. Five hundred gold a pound."

Soraka nodded. "With this, I can experience your memories."

Graves flinched, his subconscious sneer visible by the crystal's pal light. "Sounds like –"

"Bullshit. Yes, I know." The swear sounded odd, issuing from Soraka's mouth. "But reliving them helps me see how to heal you, and helps you to let go of them. You want to let them go, yes?"

Graves thought of clasping the cross on Melena's graves. A shudder worked its way from the base to tip of his spine. "Not sure."

"It'll help you cope with them." Soraka's eyes reflected a calming sympathy. "Ordinarily, I'd give you a chance to get settled in to the League, but time is short and you've suffered long enough. Take your shirt off."

Graves' eyebrows rose. "Gonna be like that, eh?"

"Must everything with you mortals be focused on procreation?" Soraka mused as the Outlaw shrugged out of his white v-neck. His dark hair still clung damply to his temples. He stood in front of Soraka, towering over her, scented of pine and mountain sky. She blushed, something he thankfully didn't notice.

"Lie down on the cot and try to relax."

He did so. His final conscious thought was of Melena, the day before she died. The glow around her face, hair pulled into a loose pony tail, swelling with new life like a prairie following a summer rain.

He closed his eyes.


	12. Buried

"Always thought you were some sort of queer, Malcolm." Jem Brooks sneered over his lunch pail, stringy red hair wet with sweat. Graves said nothing, focusing instead on chewing his sandwich and reading_ The Death of the Young_. He'd just gotten to the part where Cowboy Cy was saving Miss Liandry from the bandits, and didn't want to miss a word.

But of course Jem would bug him. "Probably ain't even know what he's reading," Jem grumbled. His bigger companion, Boris, slapped him on the shoulder.

"Leave him 'lone, Jem. You'll run him off."

"So?" Jem scowled.

"I'd prefer to keep him," the fourth member of their party added. Roger popped his whole sandwich into his mouth. Through a spray of crumbs he said, "We've actually been making quota with him."

"Aye," Boris agreed. "Malcolm landed us a company-wide bonus last month, 'case your rodent brain already forgot, Jem."

"But he's always readin', though. Don't it trouble you? That he's hauling wood but acting like an egghead?" Egghead was the slang word for the scientists of Piltover.

Graves finished chewing his sandwich. "Books are the cheapest entertainment a man can get outside a two-bit whore."

Boris and Roger chuckled and clapped him on the back. The discussion shifted to tales of said two-bit whores. Graves reflected that the honest man wasn't so different from the thief. The former was poorer than the latter - that was all.

He lost himself in Miss Liandry's plight again, not noticing the chatter come to a standstill. He didn't look up until Boris nudged him.

When he tore his eyes away, he found himself staring into the eyes of a girl about half his age. He was so accustomed to cheap women that the sight of a clean female took him aback.

Her long, coltish, tan legs seemed to go on forever, vanishing into the folds of her blue-checked dress. Two pails of water on a stick were slung over her shoulders. She regarded Malcolm with green, doelike eyes.

Never breaking eye contact, she set the water before the men. And when they dipped into the water with their personal cups, she knelt beside Graves, curiosity plainly written on her face.

"Good day, m'lady," Malcolm said. That was how Fate always addressed high class ladies. It seemed to work, usually.

"Good day. I haven't, ah, made your acquaintance, have I?"

"I don't believe so." Malcolm rested his book on his lap and shook her hand, careful not to squeeze too hard. "I'm Malcolm Graves. Much obliged."

"I'm Melena, Albrecht's daughter." She looked away, shyly. "I noticed you were reading. Not a hobby many men working share."

"Ah, it passes the time. The only thing that really entertains me after work."

"The other guys gamble and drink a lot," she said, matter-of-factly.

"I've had quite enough of that, that's for sure." He didn't bother mentioning that he drank, just not socially.

Melena cocked her head, giving Malcolm plenty of time to examine her ribbon-soft, pink lips, and the delicate bridge of her nose. "Do you stay in the barracks?"

"Aye."

Melena leaned closer. "Is Roger's cooking as bad as I've heard?"

Graves hid his smile and coughed to mask his laugh. Melena's eyes danced with merriment. "Everything you've heard and more is true."

"Then what say you join my family for dinner? Momma would say someone with your build needs proper feed."

"Hey!" Jem cried. He'd overheard their entire conversation. "I've been working for Albrecht for three years and I ain't ever seen the inside of that house! Fat load of horse shi –"

Graves snatched Jem's wrist and squeezed it. Everyone winced when they heard the bones grind together. _There's that old thunderclap silence again, always before a brawl_, Graves thought.

"I'd advise you to watch your tongue around a lady."

The silence held until Melena jumped to her feet, blushing. She brushed the dust from her knees. "See you at six, Malcolm," she said brightly, and hurried off, dress bouncing behind her. Graves watched her go, admiring how smoothly her tan legs worked.

Roger nudged him. "Reckon you got a good fuck in store?"

Graves shook his head. "Nah. A girl like that deserves better."

"Knew he was queer." Jem nursed his sore wrist, flashing Graves an angry look.

"What's the point of just fucking a girl like that? You have whores for that. Less work and cheaper too." Graves shook his head. Even a Bilgewater Bastard like himself knew the difference between a hooker and a lady.

The guys looked at each other as if Graves had just offered up a pearl of incalculable wisdom. Boris whistled. "Man, this fella's deep."

Graves felt a pang of loneliness, desire for intellectual company, and buried it. _Fate_.

Time seemed to ooze by, but the foreman let them go at last. Graves hurried back to the barracks and tried to wash the stink of work off himself. Melena's eyes seemed imprinted in his mind.

He fought a fierce internal battle with himself – stinginess versus a pretty girl – then stopped by a street florist and bought a bouquet. Not of roses, but of violets and little yellow flowers as bright as tiny suns. He ended up on Albrecht's doorsteps a quarter before six, restlessly smoothing the wrinkles out of his nicest green shirt.

The door opened and out stepped Melena. Her wild hair had been tamed by a simple blue ribbon, and when she saw the flowers, she flushed a red so dark it was almost purple. "Y-you didn't have to –"

"I never show up to something empty handed. Here." He pressed the flowers into her hands and drank in the sight of her. Her eyes accented by the wildflower blooms, her skin kissed bronze by lying outside and reading all day.

But Graves felt the world around him wobble, ripple as if a coin had been tossed in a pond. "Melena?"

As he watched, she aged. Night-dark blood suddenly streaked her face, pouring down her cheeks. He reached out to her.

* * *

"Malcolm! Malcolm!"

He struggled to open his eyes. His jaw was locked iron tight, his back arched. Far away, he felt someone's hands on his chest. Frost. Cold. His teeth chattered crisply.

"Go find Sona! I can't do it alone." Footsteps pattered away.

He forced his eyes opened only to find that sweat blurred them. Tears that felt like boiling oil rolled down his cheeks, making them glitter with pain.

A face loomed over his, golden eyes peering down. "Can you hear me? Malcolm?"

Still shuddering, he nodded. The face withdrew, hands lingering on his chest.

"I wonder if he is actually possessed," a new, breathy voice murmured. "The readings I'm getting are similar to those of demons."

Graves turned his head. A blond with pale skin stood over him. Graves had a wonderful view of her tits, but couldn't bring himself to care.

"All he's possessed by is a terrible addiction," the other woman muttered. Malcolm's mind laboriously made the connection – purple face, gold eyes, Soraka. And the blond woman was probably the Champion the spice trader's son had mentioned. Janna.

Janna crossed her arms. "The way your crystal looks indicates otherwise. I've never read of an addiction bad enough to flaw a Jordcrystal."

"Things exist outside of books," Soraka murmured, idly brushing the hair from Graves forehead.

Taric hurried through the door, leading a young woman that looked, to Graves' sweat-stained eyes, like an angel. Her white dress was a blurry glow. If he squinted, he could make out her long, walnut-colored hair streaming to her waist.

"What happened?" he heard Taric whisper.

"When I tried to share his memories, the emotion overwhelmed the crystal," Soraka murmured. She gestured to Graves' right. He turned his head and caught a glimpse of the gem, its light replaced by pulsing dark. He felt a burst of guilt. Those things were so expensive.

As the guilt worked its way through him, the crystal grew even darker. Soraka whipped around, eyes alight with alarm. "Malcolm! Quick! Think of something happy!"

_Nothin' happy in an outlaw's life. My best girl died, my friend betrayed me, and if that ain't the oldest cowboy song I've ever heard, nothin' is. _

The Jordcrystal pulsed again, but Graves couldn't rein in his thoughts. Fate appeared in his mind's eye, laughing. Graves imagined bursting his nose, smashing his collarbone. He saw those eyes pleading with him for mercy –

And the crystal simply shattered.

The Supports crouched – Taric leapt bravely in front of Soraka. Shards of black fountained upward and outward, echoing the rain outside. A few pattered onto Graves – they didn't feel that different from hail.

He heard someone crying – wasn't sure who. Great, big, gusting sobs. He touched his hand to his face to brush away some pieces of gem. His hand came away wet – not with blood. But tears.

_Oh. It's me._

His body contracted into a ball. He held his knees, heaving.

_Ah, quit blubbering, you brute,_ he thought.

He couldn't. His body seemed detached, his life force small and distant, riding the sobs like a shell on a wave.

Soraka approached him with pieces of the gem in her hair. She cautiously placed her hands over his heart. When he didn't respond, she pulled him into her arms, muffling his cries with her own bosom. She held him as the Supports looked on.

* * *

Fate sat outside the Supports' Quarters, the navy-blue awning protecting his hat from the drizzle. On the tiny café table in front of him was a rough sketch of Graves.

His many talents hadn't translated very well to art, but the charcoal pencil drawing was still recognizable, he thought. He'd captured Graves' jawline very well. After thinking for a moment, he added himself next to Graves, laughing and shuffling a pack of cards from hand to hand.

So that's what life was like before magic, eh? Before the power that woke him up at night, sweating from terrible premonitions, the deaths of people he'd never know in far-distant lands. Sometimes magic gave him headaches, too. The power was dancing on the edge of being too much for his body to handle.

Fate didn't mind. The odds usually favored him.

Or so he thought until Olivia came blustering out of the Quarters. Poor girl – she was really having a bad day, running hither and thither to accommodate the recalcitrant cowboy. "He broke a Jordcrystal," she blurted. Some mumbo jumbo healers cared about, Fate guessed.

"Who broke a whatsit?"

"Graves. He shattered a healing crystal. His pain did."

Fate leaned back, batting his dark lashes. "So I take it right now is not a prime time to apologize."

"I – I don't know."

"Go find out, girl. Quit acting like a fluffheaded Novice. You ain't one. You're a Summoner now."

Olivia shook her head dizzily. "Man oh man, what a day. Sorry. All the Supports were super panicked and I just forgot, I guess."

"It happens." Fate chuckled, but inside he felt his chest squeeze. _Graves' pain…like a wasp sting. _

Olivia fled. Fate looked out into the rain, thinking.

* * *

Graves tugged his shirt. "Fate, don't. We're wanted here, 'member?"

"Malcolm, my man, for a gambler, you sure like safety."

Malolcm looked furtively around the street market, then leaned closer to Fate. "It's Noxus," he hissed. "We'll get tortured."

"Been a long time since I been tortured correctly."

Graves shook his head in disgust. Smiling, Fate tweaked the strings on his minstrel's guitar and strummed a few sweet chords. A wanted man playing as a street entertainer was practically suicide, but Fate had gotten a good deal on this guitar and intended to put it to use. Besides, everyone loved musicians. Even the cops.

The vendor next to them quieted down to listen. At the same time, a large, imposing man came rumbling up their side of the market, trailed by two tiny daughters. His appearance was distinctly Noxian – he was wearing a casual form of their black armor, and the two golden hawks on his shoulders proclaimed him a General.

His daughter with fierce red hair tugged at her father's britches. "Sing! Sing!" she shrieked. Fate noticed Graves shrinking down beside him, trying to hide in the shadows of their rented canopy. He didn't blame him.

The man strode up to Fate's booth and stopped.

Fate put on his best, not-guilty grin and beamed up at him. "Methinks your daughters would like to hear a tune."

The General cocked his head. "Well, girls?"

Stumbling towards Fate, the girls took hold of his pants' legs and began pulling on them. The General sighed and begin to dig through his wallet. "Alright, alright. How much?"

"For two daughters as lovely as these? Free for you, sir. Just tell me what their names are."

"Katarina and Cassiopeia." The General looked at Fate, bemused. "Hard to work into a song? Or no challenge for a master like yourself?"

Fate winced. "It's quite a mouthful. No matter. Ready?" Kat and Cass bounced around him, eyes shining. He strummed his guitar and sang:

_ The General appears with crowning jewels -_

_ Two that don't come from armed men's duels!_

_ Enchanting both princes and the hardiest of fools! _

_ Kat and Cassiopeia!_

Graves buried his face in his hands, trying not to laugh.

_In ten years they'll charm the most frigid of men,_

_ Ah, now they warm the coldest of hearts-_

_ Conceived in true love and not in sin – _

_ Cass with her poison and Kat with her darts!_

Fate stopped. Distantly, he saw the General's brow furrow. Graves groaned quietly beside him. _Of all the times to have a premonition. Damnit._ In his mind's eye, he saw a shadow flinging blades and pools of chilly poison spewing fumes into the air. The vision created a weird overlay with the toddlers before him.

Even they sensed something was wrong and were starting to stir uneasily.

Fate shook his head, desperately trying to clear it. The General was scrutinizing him pretty hard now. "Sorry, sir. Where was I? Ah, yes."

_ Enchantresses both with unspeakable beauty! _

_ Glowing alight with the moon's own shine. _

_ Finer daughters have none, but thine – _

_ Kat and Cassiopeia!_

"That's quite enough, even for a free song," the General sighed.

"Your daughters' names are difficult to rhyme, especially for a dunce like myself." Fate flourished his hat and bowed to the applause of the vendors and the toddlers.

"Hard to rhyme on an empty stomach, too." The General arched an eyebrow. "Care to join me for lunch?" He looked over Fate's shoulder. "Your quiet friend is welcome, too."

"Ah, I don't want to trouble you."

"No, no. I insist."

Fate shot a helpless look over his shoulder. Graves shrugged. "You like playing the odds," he muttered darkly.

"Lead the way, sir."

"Not a problem. Can you carry my daughters? My back aches a bit. They weigh heavier than a sword sometimes."

Fate nodded. He locked his money case and dropped a couple coins in the fruit vendor's box so he'd watch it. Then he hefted the red-haired one in his arms. Graves did the same with Cassiopeia.

The General led them to an enormous mansion on the outskirts of Noxus. The dining room's table was three times as long as Graves was tall and completely saturated with food. The General leaned towards Fate. "My wife always cooks this much on Sunday. She'd love it if you could play a song about her."

"Of course. What's her name?"

"Vera."

The red-haired beauty – where Kat had gotten her looks, obviously – smiled at him. "How nice to finally have visitors for lunch."

"This one's a musician. What was your name, partner?"

"Arlan," Fate lied.

"And your friend?"

"Ivan," Graves said with a gulp. Lord, he was a terrible liar.

"Dig in, the two of you." The General gestured grandly towards the dishes. Fate and Graves both had fourths before the kitchen help showed up to eat as well. Stuffed almost beyond recognition, Fate took up his guitar. He didn't remember the song he'd played for Vera, but he'd gotten five encores, eventually singing a hymn to the lead cook of the kitchen. Her name, of all things, was Ear.

Then the General paid them and they went out and got drunk. "I see why you like to play the odds, Fate." Graves grinned at him and slapped him on the shoulder. "Yes, I do."

Fate remembered feeling a pang of sadness – he usually did after a long day. Those sisters would always have each other, blood related. He and Malcolm were just strangers who'd met up in the mix of things.

He tried to ignore his uneasy feeling.

"I just got paid for rhyming words. Man, the world is a crazy place."

Yes, there'd been some wonderful times with Malcolm Graves. Before the magic…

* * *

Fate was shaken awake by nimble fingers. Without opening his eyes, he said, "Mmm. Soraka?"

"Yes." He could feel her examining him closely and thought, _If one more person looks at me like I'm a demon today, I'm gonna lose it. _

"Fate…Olivia says you want to apologize."

"Yar. Malcolm deserves it."

"Are you being honest?"

Fate opened his eyes and winced when he saw their golden light flicker across Soraka's face. Her blue dress was in disarray, as was her moonlit-colored hair. "Why would you doubt me? I'm only a man who made his trade off of gambling and betrayed the man you're talking about."

"I need to know for sure. He's –" Soraka looked down. "Vulnerable right now."

"That's a weird thought. Malcolm, vulnerable. He's such a tough guy."

"You can't say those things to him." Soraka scowled, something Fate had never seen before. "He's only let go of some of the pain about an hour ago. The pain he'd had holed up in him for over a decade." Soraka looked away. "I know it isn't my place as a healer to pry…but why did you do it to him?"

Fate blinked. He hadn't seen Soraka much, but he'd gotten the impression that she wasn't one for interpersonal affairs. She always seemed lofty and distant. Seeing her compassion in action was startling. "I…I made a mistake, I think."

"You left him to die. I want to know why you did so."

Fate massaged his temples. "I'd rather not speak of it."

"And I'd rather not watch a grown man struggle. We all have to do things we don't want to."

Fate almost said, _You threatening me, miss_? But he thought better of it. _The wasp's sting_… "I sold his soul to the devil for magic powers." He spat on the ground. "That's the best way to put it."

"I see. So you weren't always a sorcerer. I couldn't tell." She turned away from him entirely. "Your handling of magic is wonderful."

"I paid a large price for it."

"Not as large as Malcolm," Soraka murmured. "I'm starting to wonder if I should let you near him at all."

"I said I want to apologize." Fate felt the magic in him flare and tried to tamp it down. "Everyone makes mistakes, don't they? 'Raka? Ain't you supposed to forgive people?"

She blinked. Fate could tell she was chewing that one over in her mind. The rain pattered down, insistently. At last she said, "You're right, Fate. My mistake."

"We all make them."

"Follow me," she said. "I'll take you to them."

Heart thudding, he stood up and followed her into the Quarters.


	13. Resurrection & Epilogue

As Soraka led Fate through the dimly-lit Quarters, she could feel his heart rate increasing, kicking in his throat like a sprightly colt, trembling in his chest. _So much pain on both sides – they're little more than wounded children_, she thought. Aloud, she said, "I never considered that your powers weren't a birthright. You handle your abilities so well."

"Aye. I've always had a drop of magic in my blood. Maybe more than a drop." In fact, Priggs was convinced the magic-amplifying process would work on him because he already boasted a penchant for enchantment.

Soraka could feel Graves as she neared his room. He had no idea Fate was coming.

Fate kept his head down, staring at his boots. "You know, most of the street performers you see have some sort of magic or another."

"I thought you were a criminal."

"I was both." He took his hat off and nervously finger-combed his hair.

Soraka hesitated by the door of her room. She could hear the Supports' murmurs of comfort, answered by Graves' deeper, rumbling tone. She caught a glimpse of the Card Master from the corner of her eye. He'd become paler than usual, color washed away like ink in a storm. "Wait here," she said.

"He'll never agree to it," Fate muttered. The tree in the central atrium moved slightly, leaves rustling. Soraka opened the door and stepped inside.

* * *

"Malcolm? How are you?"

The Outlaw was sitting upright on the cot, chugging another cup of black coffee, the delicate China cup looking out of place in his oversized paw. He looked up.

"Sweaty. Kinda tired. I'm guessin' the voodoo sped up my withdrawal, eh?" His eyes were rimmed with red. Taric reappeared with a damp, cool cloth and put it on Graves' neck. "Thankee."

"My pleasure."

"Other than that, I've just been talking to Sona and Janna." Sona gave Soraka a small wave and smile. Soraka cocked her head.

"I don't think I've ever heard their names in a Bilgewater accent before."

"Delightful, isn't it?" Janna smiled. Her blond hair lifted briefly on a quiet breeze, then fell again. Strangely enough, she and Sona seemed to be enjoying Graves' company. Taric was even sitting at his feet.

_Stars guide me, I hate to disturb this tranquility, but I think it's best to get this over with_.

Soraka cleared her throat. "You have a visitor."

"Another one? Damn, I'm popular." He grinned at Sona and Janna.

"It's Fate," Soraka said softly, and braced herself. She regretted saying it – the light in Graves' eyes immediately died out, and she saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed.

"What's he want?" His voice grew harsh. "What's he want with me?"

"To apologize."

Graves put his head in his hands for a long moment. Right as Soraka moved to, to send Fate away, Graves said "Send him in. I'd like to have a word with him in private, though. Go on, girls – supper's on me when I'm done talkin'."

Soraka refrained from telling him that, in a few more hours, support wouldn't be on anyone – he'd be in full withdrawal, shakes and all. Sona and Janna shook his hand and floated towards the door, followed by Taric. Soraka lingered.

"If you need me, shout. We won't be eavesdropping."

Graves nodded, and the healer went away.

* * *

"_You ever think we'll settle down, Malcolm?" Fate's eerie blue eyes looked at him over the supper fire. Malcolm stretched his limbs. Lord, it felt good to be twenty. _

"_No, I doubt it. Outlaws never do."_

* * *

Graves stood up. Fate wasn't walking in on him in bed again, chained up or not. All those years of seeing his laughing face in his mind – the memories of riding together – made Malcolm's heart kick like a wild colt. The world around him seemed surreal, as if he'd walk up at any second. Then the door creaked open and there he was – Twisted Fate.

Graves felt his skin turn to ice. "You – you haven't aged a day."

Fate's face was wrinkleless, smooth as a boy's. His thick dark hair was pulled back in the same style. Even his high cheekbones – the ones that gave him the look of a fox – were unblemished.

All the same but his eyes.

They were glowing, Graves realized. Glowing yellow like a 'coon right before you hot it.

Fate stepped toward him, and Graves' fury boiled over. He leaned back. Remotely, he saw Fate brace himself, but the Card Master didn't move to defend.

Graves slammed his fist into Fate's shoulder with a savage roar that echoed throughout the entire Quarters. The Supports made to run back to his room, but Soraka stopped them. She pressed her fingers to her lips and shook her head.

Malcolm collapsed against Fate, his energy expended. Fate held him up instinctively.

They stood that way for a while – Graves unable to move, Fate feeling rooted to the ground. "Malcolm. I'm sorry."

"I hate you," Graves mumbled. "You fucking – "

"I know."

"You know why I came here?" Graves tried to stand up. His ears were ringing and he felt dizzy. His mind was nothing but fire and static. "I came here to shoot…to shoot your lying head off every day!"

Fate shivered. Malcolm had streaks of gray in his hair. He'd also put on fifty pounds of muscle. This old man – bitter and weary – couldn't be Malcolm. It was a ghost. And he had done this.

Twisted Fate. The irony of his name was dark as a juniper forest. Had his father foreseen this? He began shaking.

"Scared, pretty boy?" Graves drawled.

"Malcolm, stop!"

Graves staggered away and leaned against a wall, breath hissing between clenched teeth. "Stop? You ruined my whole damn life, Fate. It's gone! Years of it!"

"Were you really in prison for twelve years?" Fate's lips trembled. That cute littlee bow the ladies all loved. Graves wanted to break him.

"No," he said at last. "Had me a wife. Not that it's any of your damn business."

"Bet she was a beaut. Knew you had it in you." Fate sat down at last, put his head in his hands. "All the whores were jealous they couldn't have you instead."

"Don't bullshit me – "

"You were there when they said it! I wish I coulda met your wife, Malcolm. I really do."

_Melena_. Graves took a long, shaky breath and collapsed onto the cot. Fate looked up. "Malcolm, I'm so sorry."

"'Course you are now. I'd be too if I was gonna get my ass booted daily."

"No – I –"

"What'd you do it for, Fate? Did Priggs offer you cash? Get out of jail free?"

"Malcolm, you know better than that. If it'd been the last one, we'd've just gone together and broken out."

"So you double crossed me for no damn reason." Graves laughed darkly. "Fucking – "

"Magic. He gave me magic." Fate leaned back with a sigh.

"Ditched me for card tricks," Graves growled.

"I'm a sorcerer now."

"Really? You look like a fucker to me."

"I'm powerful beyond anything you could imagine, Malcolm." Fate closed his eyes.

"Really?" Graves said again. His eyes were shining strangely, a mixture of sadness and weariness and pain. "Then tell me my wife's name, Card Fucker. Tell me it."

Fate leaned back even farther. He let his mind drift to Graves' – a series of locked doors, grimy windows and anger rapidly approaching insanity. He caught a glimpse of her. She had been a beaut. Oh, my, yes. He'd loved her, too. One of the only two people he'd ever loved.

Fate opened his eyes. Malcolm was shaking from a mixture of withdrawal and hatred.

"Her name was Melena and she was a beaut."

Graves' face crumbled. Fate tensed up, awaiting his next move. If Malcolm wanted to beat him, he'd let him.

But Malcolm doubled over in renewed grief. Fate's shoulder ached and throbbed, but that was nothing compared to the pain roiling off of his old friend.

And while Graves sat there, Fate vowed to himself he'd make it up to him. Somehow.

Then Soraka appeared and ushered Fate out of the room.

* * *

_Epilogue_

The withdrawal had been bad. At the depths of illness, Graves believed he was walking with Melena and Fate, and being trailed by his son, Albrecht. Fate had blue eyes. Albrecht had Melena's green ones.

When he awoke, his eyes were moist. All he'd been doing was crying, it seemed. Soraka and Olivia held constant vigil over him, saying incantations when he sleeping, reading to him when he was awake.

The week after his withdrawal, Fate appeared. At first he and Graves didn't speak to one another outside of grunts or curt nods. But after a few days, the two of them started playing poker.

"How am I supposed to beat a sorcerer? Mind reading trumps a stacked deck, Fate."

Fate just smiled. He let Graves win a couple times – then the Outlaw started actually beating him.

"You always were better," Fate grumbled as Graves smugly raked in the chocolates they played with.

Three days before Malcolm's trials, he took his gun to the Sparring Grounds and practiced sharpshooting. He didn't miss a single target.

When Iorick and Olivia appeared at Soraka's door, he was ready and waiting. He kissed Olivia's cheek, his rough beard brushing against it. "Don't worry. I've got this."

"I'll always worry," she murmured as he followed Iorick.

Graves turned back. His face was finally freed of the ghosts that had lingered there for so long. He half-smiled. "You shouldn't worry, but it might happen anyways. There's always two sides to a coin."

_The End_

* * *

_N.b. Thank you to everyone who took the time to read this story. I'll probably be either expanding it or doing a prequel to it at some future date. Once again, your kind words and reviews have been instrumental in developing this work. I love you guys!_


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